


Convergence

by inkblot_fiend



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Canon - TV, First Time, M/M, Slash, chance encounters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkblot_fiend/pseuds/inkblot_fiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a period of three weeks in the summer of 1805 there was a molly house established on the second floor of a certain public house in the city of York.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Anon, who set the following prompt on the Kink Meme: 
> 
> "There are places where like minded gentlemen can meet to give vent to some of their less socially accepted needs.  
> That is how Segundus meets Childermass for the first time. But after their first wonderful night it seems that they keep running into each other on every opportunity.
> 
> Segundus is afraid of blackmail, Childermass suspects some sort of scheme. But by fate or coincident each time they meet they menage to end up with hands in each other trousers."

 

For a period of three weeks in the summer of 1805 there was a molly house established on the second floor of a certain public house in the city of York.

More of a cupboard than a house, John Segundus remarked to nobody but himself, but then beggars cannot be choosers. It was hot and cramped, with barely enough air in the place to contain the rustling conversation of the clientèle. Not that said clientèle seemed to mind all that much, Segundus reflected. They were clustered in twos and threes, happily engrossed in talk or … certain other pursuits. Pursuits which John Segundus himself would very much like to be engrossed in, but found he lacked the confidence to introduce himself to.

It had taken all his courage to leave his research and venture to this address, and so, lacking the will to go any further, found himself loitering near the door and fiddling with his waistcoat buttons to give his hands something to do. It had been a foolish dream, he decided, to try and pursue this particular fascination. He was not brave or forward, and these men had already found their companions, beside. He should consider this a minor victory and return to the comfort of his papers and books. Thus resolved, he turned to the door.

“Going so soon?” The voice that spills into his ear was deep and slow as ancient rock.

Segundus began to turn around, but strong hands gripped his shoulders and prevented him. “I remembered an urgent appointment,” he said, trying to keep his voice even as his heart sped up in his chest. “I thought it best -”

“First time?” asked the voice, now so close that Segundus felt the tickle of breath against his earlobe.

“I'm afraid so,” Segundus said, utterly failing to repress a shiver. “I'm also afraid I have no idea how to conduct myself.”

There was a low chuckle in Segundus' ear, and he found himself taking an involuntary half-step backwards, closer to the owner of the voice. The sound of it seemed to touch every part of him at once, and he was suddenly aching for more.

“You are in need of education, then,” the voice murmured.

“Indeed, sir,” Segundus said. And then, surprising himself with his sudden boldness: “Will you? Educate me, sir?”

“With pleasure,” the voice said. He pushed Segundus up against the wall, so Segundus had to brace himself there with both hands on the wood. Lips applied themselves to Segundus' neck with determination, and Segundus could not help but gasp.

“W-wait,” he managed to say, and the lips pulled back. “What is your name, sir?”

There was a rush of breath against his hairline: another laugh, this one more from relief than good humour. “John,” said the voice. “May I proceed?”

“I insist,” said Segundus, and then, as _John_ dipped his head to resume the kissing of Segundus' neck, “It's funny.”

His hands dropped down to Segundus' waist, fingers digging in to the fabric of his waistcoat.

“I mean,” he croaked, as John's hands slipped lower, “That's my name, too.”

“Of course it is, John.” John caught Segundus' ear in his teeth and bit down, which made Segundus gasp and push his hips back. He released his bite to whisper, “You must remember to be quiet, John. If that is all I teach you it will be a worthwhile lesson.”

“I am not an innocent,” Segundus huffed, though in truth he was delighted that John was simultaneously talking in that exquisite voice and pressing his hard manhood against Segundus' rear.

John's hands slid down to the front of Segundus' trousers and he discovered then that keeping quiet was easier said than done. John rubbed him first through the thick fabric whilst maintaining his delightful attention to Segundus' neck, then slid one of his hands inside to cup him and stroke him and by  _God_ it was all Segundus could do to stay on his feet and gasp his ragged breaths out in front of him.

After a few heavenly minutes of this John used his other hand to turn Segundus' head and kiss him roughly. Segundus kept his eyes closed throughout, thrilling in the scrape of stubble on his own smooth cheeks, the heat of John's tongue on his own and the sound of harsh panting. How marvellous, he thought, that only this morning he had thought a scenario such as this was beyond his meagre grasp, and now there was a man called John kissing him in a molly house in York.

Cupboard, he reminded himself, a little hysterically.

He would have been quite content to remain in such a position for the foreseeable future, but his inexperience, excitement and the obvious talents of his new friend combined to bring him all too soon to that wonderful peak. He let John's mouth swallow up his joyful cry and for a moment he felt as if he were existing outside his body before he crashed back into himself, jerking against John and spilling into his own trousers.

“Beautiful,” John whispered into his ear. After a few heartbeats had passed between them he began to fasten Segundus' trousers properly again.

When Segundus found himself capable of using the English language again he began, “Let me return the favour...” but at that same moment John pulled himself back, letting in a sudden draft of cold air.

Segundus turned around as quickly as he could, but he was quite alone in the crush of similarly-engaged men. He caught a quick glimpse of a man dressed in black slipping out of the door, but by the time he had remembered how to walk and pushed past a few other men to get into the corridor he found it quite deserted.

Were it not for the thrum of exhaustion in his limbs and the distinctly sticky patch in his trousers he might think he had dreamed the entire interlude.

When a hopeful John Segundus returned to the public house a few days later he found that the molly house had been closed down, with no forwarding address left for those who might care to know. He declared to himself that it was just as well, and returned his full attention to his studies. If he had occasion in the following years to recall the dark voice or the competent hand or the heated kiss of his companion it was only to remind himself where temptation lead, and to inspire himself to continue down the righteous path of the English magician.

 


	2. Chapter Two

For a period of nine months John Segundus dedicated himself wholly and completely to the pursuit of the truth of English magic. He had imagined it would be a straightforward thing, to join the Society of Magicians that held court in York, impress upon them his great sense of vocation. He would tell them his prophecy and they would tell him their secrets.

As it turned out there were a great many things one must do to prove oneself a magician to the York society, some small trifles such as the fetching of frock coats from the tailors, others more bothersome, such as standing for a period of eight hours in the Yorkshire drizzle to sell pamphlets. He was further required to prove himself as a scholar, and so set about to marshal his wild enthusiasm for magic and its history into respectable academic articles. He was first surprised, and then enormously proud, to see his own name in print upon a number of small articles. Now he could call himself a magician, he thought, although the single spell in his possession still refused to be properly cast.

He did not let himself dwell very often upon the molly house or his unknown (and simultaneously rather _intimately_ known) lover. If he had found a spare afternoon to pursue such interests again he would not have even known where to begin, and really, he had already experienced more than he had dared dream possible for a man such as him. Magic was a more consuming ambition, and one that he could live in the open, so he found himself at peace with his choice.

At first he did not recognise the man at the door of Hurtfew Abbey. And how could he? He had never had a face to put to that marvellous voice, although he had sometimes had the need to imagine one. The man (who was not Norrell) barely spoke at first, and when he did Segundus was too excited by the possibility of a confrontation with the man who was stealing his books to think too much on it. After that he could have only a vague awareness of the man Childermass whilst in the presence of such an enormity of books and the quiet disregard of Mr Norrell.

It was not, then, until he stood upon the steps of the cathedral that his memory caught up with his present situation. Childermass spoke at length with a mouthful of Yorkshire stone and the spark of recognition lit up Segundus' heart. This was him, this was his John; he knew it with certainty.

When it was just him, Childermass and the boy left in the snow he looked Childermass square in the eye and refused to sign the contract. What a confusion in his mind at that moment! To be faced with the dual possibilities of witnessing real magic and having his own magic, however small, ripped away from him, and at the same time as confronting his man from the molly house was really more threads than one man ought to be able to weave at any one moment.

Childermass looked at him with a curious indifference, then said, “We shall say the contract is with all the members of the York Society of Magicians. Except Mr Segundus.”

How fine his name sounded in that voice! How hard he fought to keep his features neutral and enter the cathedral with his thoughts turned purely toward magic.

The wonders inside the cathedral drove all other thoughts from him with ease. It was real! It could be done! He was so lit up with excitement that when he left Honeyfoot and ran to thank Mr Childermass he didn't even consider the implications.

“Do not thank me, sir,” said Childermass, fixing Segundus with a dark stare, darker even than the shadows in the cathedral. “It is Mr Norrell's magic.”

“Well, thank you for the opportunity,” said Segundus, smiling despite Childermass' efforts to dampen him. “And for allowing me to continue my own study.”

“Your friends are going,” said Childermass, gesturing to the main entrance where the subdued group of former magicians were leaving.

Segundus did not want to leave. He wanted to dance and sing and do magic! “I can find my own way home,” he said. “Thank you for your concern.”

“You are thanking me a lot.” Childermass sounded somewhat confused. “There is no need.”

“Oh, there is every need!” And then, not quite knowing what possessed him, added in a low voice, “Thank you, John.”

Childermass blinked once and then smiled in a way that put Segundus in mind of a hawk spotting its prey. “I wondered if you would know me, sir,” he said, softly enough not to raise an echo.

“I wondered the same,” said Segundus. “I daresay I was less memorable than you.”

“On the contrary. I had watched you for some minutes before I made my approach.” Here Childermass paused to tilt his head, his hair hanging down in a quite fetching curtain. “It is my usual way. I had you quite committed to memory before I ever spoke to you.”

This sealed it for Segundus. He reached forward and grasped the lapels of Childermass' coat with both hands, dragging him in close enough to press a kiss to his lips. Childermass made a sound like the earth's plates shifting and brought both of his hands up to Segundus' face. As Childermass turned his head to deepen the kiss the brims of their hats knocked together and both fell to the cathedral floor with two soft thuds.

They broke apart, Segundus feeling like there was not enough space in his chest for air. His lips tingled.

“We should not,” said Childermass.

“There are a great many things we ought not to do,” Segundus agreed, though he did not let go of Childermass' coat. In fact he gripped it that much tighter. He met Childermass' eyes and saw there the same burning hunger that had flared up inside himself. He closed the gap again, enjoying very much the rasp of Mr Childermass' beard against his own smooth skin.

Enjoying it, at least, until the patter of footsteps startled them both and drove them to release each other and put a respectable distance between them.

“There you are, Mr Segundus!” cried Mr Honeyfoot as he rounded a pillar and came into view. “I was worried you'd been carried off by faeries.”

“I was just,” Segundus started, then had to cough to clear the husk from his voice, “Just thanking Mr Childermass.”

“Your hats, sirs!”

“I am a clumsy oaf!” Segundus said, bending hurriedly to pick up both hats and return the ratty topper to its owner. He was glad that the darkness in the cathedral would conceal his blushing.

“Gentlemen,” said Childermass with a slight inclination of his head.

They parted ways, Segundus following Mr Honeyfoot back towards the entrance and resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. He was horrified at how close he had come to being caught but already finding himself plotting ways in which he, magic and Mr Childermass may all be brought together once more.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter closes their interactions in Episode One, includes a scene entirely imagined and turns the rating up a notch. 
> 
> Mr Honeyfoot is a world-class cockblocker, by the way.

 

 

His happy mood following the events at the cathedral was quickly doused in cold water when he went to visit the Starre Inn the following day. He found the books gone and all his friends missing as well.

It was then it occurred to him that the Society would have to be disbanded, the magicians therein defrocked and Segundus left to return to the lonely life of an enthusiastic amateur. And very amateurish it had been, to let the books vanish thus.

“Why so gloomy, Mr Segundus?”

Having believed himself to be alone, Segundus thought he could be forgiven for leaping a clear foot in the air and making a quite high-pitched noise. This only served to amuse Mr Childermass, whom Segundus was _certain_ had not been leaning so against the far wall when he came in.

“I apologise, Mr Childermass,” Segundus said as his heart was still racing. “I did not see you.”

Childermass shrugged. “I do not always require people to see me.”

“The books,” said Segundus, gesturing to the empty bookshelf. “Are they-?”

“Property of Mr Norrell now, sir.” Childermass, leaving the wall to come toward him, “As agreed in the contract signed by the Society.”

“Not all the Society,” Segundus said, attempting a tone of reproach.

Childermass seemed unmoved. “As you say. But a bargain is a bargain.”

They were all of a sudden standing quite close again, close enough that Segundus could chart the progress of the morning light spilling through Childermass' hair, and he found for the second time in as many days that there was not enough space in his chest for proper breathing.

“I had wondered -” Childermass began, before the door banged open and Mr Honeyfoot came in clutching his hat and followed by two lads.

“It's there,” Honeyfoot said, gesturing to the Society's banner. “Take it and let's finish the thing. Hallo, Mr Segundus! Mr Childermass.”

When Segundus looked around it was to see that Childermass had quite silently dropped into a chair, propped his legs upon the table and begun filling a pipe, his expression void of any sign at all of what he might have intended to say.

* * *

He had written and sent the article to the London papers before he came up with a proper excuse to visit Hurtfew again. Oh, he could probably have requested an audience with Norrell easily enough, and been rebuffed or welcomed as the man's mood allowed, but it was not the master of the house he wished to speak with. How odd, he thought, that it was so much harder to fathom a reason for an audience with a servant.

It took a few days of pondering, but before the week was out he had laid his scheme. He stomped up to Hurtfew's entrance, summoning all the anger he could to loose it upon whoever should open the door when he hammered his fist against it.

It was not Childermass this time, but some bright-eyed boy in a footman's uniform.

“I demand to see Norrell!” Segundus declared, drawing himself up to his fullest height. The boy quailed and fled, just as Segundus had hoped. He was hurriedly shown into a drawing room where the furniture was already covered in dust sheets and the shelves were bare. Left alone in the quiet of the abbey he could sense the faintest hint of magic on the air, like the smell of lightning before a storm.

The door opened and Mr Childermass slunk inside. His hair looked more dishevelled than usual and he was in his shirtsleeves, a sight which threatened to spoil Segundus' act by making him smile. There were smears of dust down his waistcoat, which hung unbuttoned. Good Lord, Segundus thought, and then for a moment quite forgot what he was supposed to be saying.

“Mr Segundus?” Childermass enquired as he closed the door behind him. “Davey said there was an angry magician at the door. I did not imagine it would be you.” He stayed where he was, with his hands clasped behind his back and a look of some concern on his face. “I'm afraid Mr Norrell is not welcoming visitors at present.”

“That is just as well,” said Segundus with an airy wave of his hand. He was quite enjoying having the the upper hand. “This is perhaps not a fit subject for the likes of Mr Norrell.”

Childermass looked Segundus up and down. “You should know, _sir_ ,” and here he infused the word with enough acid to dissolve mountains, “That there is nothing about me that Mr Norrell does not know and tolerate. If you sought to make some kind of profit -”

“Oh, no!” cried Segundus, suddenly distraught, “No, you mistake me, that is not what I am about at all. No, not at all, John.”

At the sound of his Christian name Childermass seemed to soften, though he did not look entirely convinced. Segundus marvelled briefly at the thought that he played his role too well, and had managed to ruin what little they had built between them, but then he cast that idea out in favour of another. An idea that he had been considering every night for the past week, once the candles were snuffed out and he was quite alone in the darkness.

He smiled at Childermass. “I was only trying to make a credible excuse to see you,” he said. “You told me you had wondered something, sir, before we were joined by Mr Honeyfoot, and I only thought to find out what that might be. I did not mean to truly alarm you.”

Childermass seemed to relax, as if he could divine the truth in Segundus' words. “You have already answered my wondering, sir. Do not fret upon it.”

“I also meant to say that I have sent the letter to the newspapers,” Segundus said. “I would expect publication in the next day or so. You will arrive in London to much fanfare.”

Something like a smile quirked Childermass' lips. “Then I suppose you have come to receive my gratitude?”

“I came with the intention of reprimanding your master for hoarding the Society's books,” said Segundus, “But since he will not see me your gratitude will have to suffice.”

Childermass did not appear to move, but the sound of the key turning in the lock was unmistakeable. “I think the staff are afraid of your anger, sir,” he said as he pushed himself away from the door. “They will not want to be near a magician in a rage. They have learned well enough from the master himself.”

There was a peculiar sense of power in letting Childermass close the distance between them, and Segundus let his eyes drink in the sight of his unkempt acquaintance while his mind made plans to ruffle him further.

“My thanks to you, then,” Childermass said.

It took very little effort to brush the waistcoat from Childermass' shoulders, and Segundus did just that. Childermass did likewise with Segundus' overcoat, but before he could start work on undoing any buttons Segundus gave him a playful shove, knocking the man backwards onto a settee. The dust sheet billowed around him as he landed, and Segundus smiled to see the look of mild astonishment on Childermass' face.

Segundus sat himself over Childermass, with a knee resting on the dust sheet either side of his legs. He leaned down to capture Childermass' lips in a kiss, letting slip a soft moan of relief. For the few moments when he ran out of magical thoughts to think he had thought of nothing but these same lips, these hands that clasped his face, dug into his hair -

“They will not stay away forever,” Childermass managed to grind out between biting kisses. “We are busy with preparations...”

Segundus tilted Childermass' head back, the better to slip their tongues together. A moment more of this and he pulled back, saying, “Then I shall not delay.”

With his heart rattling in his own ears he slid off the settee and fell to his knees on the floor.

“Mr Segundus -” Childermass started, but whatever thought he had wished to voice was silenced when Segundus pushed his legs apart and settled himself between them.

It may have been impossible for him or anyone else to find magic books in England, but books on such matters as these, though highly illegal, sinful and downright lewd, could be found quite easily if one knew where to look.

He made short work of Childermass' breeches, opening them to expose his half-hard prick. Segundus felt a thrill of excitement at his own daring and reached out to hold it in his hand. Mr Childermass let out a gust of breath.

“I believe, sir,” Segundus said as he began to move his hand in a rhythm he usually found most pleasing upon himself, “That we are not at all even in our endeavours together.” He found he was quite fixated on watching Childermass' face as a subtle flush rose upon it and his eyes slid open and shut in a lazy cycle.

“Indeed?” Childermass said, though Segundus suspected he was not, in fact, giving the conversation his full attention.

“I have taken my pleasure from you, and what have you had but a few stolen kisses?”

Childermass huffed out a laugh and lifted one hand to take a gentle hold of Segundus' wrist, slowing his movements. “You think I took nothing from you? I told you: I have you committed to memory.”

He felt the shudder of excitement all through his body, and he let it rush over him as he dipped his head and kissed the tip of Childermass' prick. The man in question let out an earthy groan and slid both hands into Segundus' hair. He kissed it again, letting his lips linger this time. He attempted a little suction, and that seemed to please Childermass greatly. Emboldened, and recalling a particularly invigorating chapter on the subject, he opened his mouth wider and took as much of Childermass' length into him as he could. He overreached, causing himself to pull back quite quickly lest he choke himself there in Mr Norrell's drawing room.

“My apologies,” he spluttered.

Childermass shushed him and stroked the side of his face with a thumb. “No need, sir,” he said. “Nor any to feel obligated -”

“I merely failed to correctly convert the theoretical to the practical,” Segundus said. “If you will permit me...”

Childermass put up no further resistance, and Segundus applied himself to his task with renewed determination and the benefit of some experience. He limited himself to the smallest amount of Childermass he could safely accommodate, making up for it with the free application of his hand and the adoration of his tongue. It was not, perhaps, the very best interpretation of the act, but it was enough to cause Childermass to shake and shiver, to make his hands clench in Segundus' hair and within a quarter hour make him grunt, convulse and spill himself into Segundus' mouth.

He scarcely had time to swallow (the book had suggested this was not compulsory, but in the moment Segundus reacted on instinct, quite surprising himself) before Childermass dragged him back up onto the settee, growled something indiscernible into his ear and kissed him wetly. He shoved a hand down Segundus' breeches and Segundus found that he had become so excited by all that had gone before that he had cried out his own release mere moments later.

For a few hazy moments they lay forehead to forehead on the settee, catching their breaths.

“Are we even now, John?” Childermass asked at length, pulling back and unsticking his hair from his face. He produced a handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at Segundus' mouth before wiping rather less hopefully at the stains on his own breeches.

Segundus flushed bright red. “I am not certain,” he ventured. “I think I may be once more in your debt.”

At that, Childermass laughed, a single bark of mirth that was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“I think this was quite the most dangerous and wonderful thing I have ever done,” Segundus said as he saw to the fastening of his breeches and the righting of his hair.

Childermass only smiled an almost indulgent smile at him. “I am sorry we shall not soon see each other again,” he said. “This has been... unorthodox. But enjoyable.”

When they once again appeared as respectable as either was accustomed to, Childermass showed Segundus out, maintaining their facade by slamming the door heartily behind him. Segundus chanced only one look back at Hurtfew on his way back to the road, but saw nothing at any of the windows save the reflections of the cloudy Yorkshire sky.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We venture into Episode Two and explore some possibilities.

Though John Segundus might well have enjoyed spending a period of time in a romantic lethargy, thinking only of what a great injustice it was that he should be separated from his lover after only so brief a reunion, he found that in the next several months he was much too busy to do much more than cast an occasional wistful glance out across the moors.

In that time, he and Mr Honeyfoot concerned themselves chiefly with scouring the county for any books Mr Norrell may have missed, keeping up with the thrilling news coming out of London and then with searching for an ideal location to establish their school.

The whole endeavour had been Mr Honeyfoot's idea, dreamed up one evening over a shared supper in Mr Segundus' lodgings, and it quickly consumed their conversations thereafter. Each man felt they could do quite an extraordinary amount of good in this manner, and were quite taken with the idea of themselves as founders of the first school of magic.

"Although it will have to be in your name, sir," Mr Honeyfoot added, rather sadly, "Since I cannot call myself magician any longer."

As to the place itself, it should be an ancient building, they decided, and most definitely in Yorkshire, and so they spent a good many afternoons touring the crumbling estates of that windswept county, planning and dreaming and making each other laugh.

It was after one such excursion, when Mr Honeyfoot had fallen asleep in the back of the hired coach and they had quite decisively crossed Gunnarside House off their list that it occurred to Mr Segundus that he now knew quite an awful lot about this particular friend. He knew he took his tea pale and hot, had quite extreme opinions about what constituted good poetry and sipped a warm brandy every night before bed. He had been married, and would visit the churchyard in York each Sunday with a seasonal bouquet. He was the very spirit of friendliness and generosity, and had taken Segundus to his heart like a son and comrade combined.

All together he knew an awful lot about Mr Honeyfoot, and was a good deal less intimate with him than with certain other people he could mention. He felt a certain embarrassment to think of all that had transpired between him and Childermass without so much as a formal introduction.

He decided that he very much _wanted_ to know things about Childermass, but had no easy way to find anything out. All that he knew for certain was that he Norrell's man, that he tasted like pipe smoke and had no objections at all to the amorous attention of one John Segundus. He also knew that to put his thoughts into writing in a manner that would not risk endangering both of them was quite beyond his skill. He was not at all shadowy enough. He sighed, and looked out at the moors rolling past.

Starecross was perfect. It was as bound up in the history of magic as it was by the brambles and ivy that had made their home there. It was of a decent size, not so large as to overwhelm the two of them but not so small that they would quickly run out of space when the school took on pupils, and best of all it was in a remote and desolate part of the county where they could operate unobserved.

For Mr Norrell had shed the life of the recluse, by all accounts. Articles about the blockade and the miraculous resurrection of Lady Pole appeared in the papers almost daily. He was a champion of magic, certainly, but of his kind of magic only. In the months since he had left Yorkshire he had quite changed the landscape of English magic, shutting down the southern societies and looking north with intent. Street magicians were now out of work at best and made criminals at worst. It saddened Segundus to think of magic narrowing to include so few people, and it infuriated him to think of Childermass' role in the whole affair.

That being said, when he made the acquaintance of Mr Strange in that strangely dreamt version of Starecross and then a moment later in the real one, he did not think twice about suggesting he write to Norrell and introduce the two magicians. After all, he reasoned, Mr Norrell only hated that which was theoretical and not respectable – he could hardly complain about a fellow gentleman practitioner, could he? And perhaps Strange could mollify Norrell somewhat.

The reply came in spiky handwriting, inviting Mr Strange to an audience at Hanover Square. Segundus bid the magician and his wife farewell, and hoped very much to see them again. Mr Strange was a much more agreeable magician than Mr Norrell, and Segundus thought they could make very fine friends one day.

“He would make a very fine schoolmaster, also,” said Honeyfoot as they walked from the house to the solicitor's. “The boys will warm to him quickly, I can see it.”

It was Mr Honeyfoot who put down the money on Starecross, and Mr Segundus who paid for their celebratory supper at the inn that night. Mr Honeyfoot took over the clearing of the house, a task which he fell to with no small amount of delight, and Mr Segundus went out to hunt down books and materials, which suited him just as well.

Which was how he came to be trudging between bookshops in Manchester in the rain, wishing for a seat in front of the fire and a brandy or two and becoming so absorbed in his little fantasy of home that he rounded a corner entirely too quickly and without looking up. He collided with a man coming the other way and Mr Segundus fell back onto the cobbles with a grunt and a splash.

“I am sorry!” he cried out, more in surprise that real apology, since he was the one lying in the mud with rain falling on his face. He scrambled to his knees to lay hands on his knapsack.

“Mr Segundus?”

He looked up sharply to see Childermass looming above him, water dripping off the brim of his hat and an expression on his face that might very well be called surprise. Segundus wished then that he knew a spell to open a portal to another world, so that he might fall through it and not ever make such a fool of himself again.

“Mr Childermass!” he said, since no such spell or act of God was forthcoming. “How unexpected!”

Childermass held out a hand and clasped Segundus' arm to help him up. “I did not anticipate this, sir,” he agreed, looking almost upset.

They stood for a minute as the rain pattered about them. Segundus thought that Childermass looked tired, for his eyes were heavier and his beard thicker than he remembered. His clothes were travel-stained and his hair was weighted down by water, and despite all that he looked quite as delightful as he had in Mr Norrell's drawing room. Segundus felt it was a great accomplishment to resist the need to ravish Childermass right where he stood.

“W-what brings you to Manchester?” he sputtered.

“Norrell,” Childermass said simply.

“I thought Norrell was in Portsmouth?” In fact Segundus knew very well where Norrell was, since the papers wrote of little else.

“He is,” said Childermass, venturing nothing further.

It was then that Segundus realised that Childermass was still holding his arm. Segundus cast a wary eye around them, but the few people who were out in this weather had their heads bowed and were not much interested in anything but getting to their fireplaces as quickly as they were able.

“Do you have lodgings, sir?” Childermass asked in a low tone that made Segundus' innards drop directly to the gutter.

“No,” he said, “I was on my way to find a room for the evening.”

“No need.” Now Childermass released his arm. “Follow me. At a distance.” He thought for a moment and then added, “If that is agreeable, sir.”

Without waiting for an answer he turned in a swirl of black fabric and crossed the road without an apparent care for the puddles in his path. Segundus waited until he was across the street, straightened his jacket and then followed.

Childermass led him through twisting dark streets, doubling back and circling around so that Segundus quite lost his bearings. Night had properly fallen and though only a few gas lamps lit the way, Childermass strode on with certainty, and so Segundus could do nothing but trust him. At length he disappeared into a doorway.

Segundus had expected an inn of some kind, maybe a lodging house with a lenient landlady. Instead he found he had followed Childermass to a ramshackle and apparently abandoned house. The windows were boarded up and the door was off its hinges. He stepped inside with no small amount of trepidation.

“Childermass?” he called out into the darkness of the interior.

“Hush,” said Childermass from very close by. He heard the creaking of the door being moved back into place and then the sliding of a series of bolts. Then, the sparking of a tinder and a flare of light.

Childermass led him by candlelight further into the house, up a creaky stair to a room on the first floor. The whole place smelled distantly of earth and rain, though the air felt dry enough. In the upstairs room there was a fireplace, some charred cooking pots and a pile of blankets. There was a set of saddlebags with them, and a pair of muddied riding boots.

“I say,” Segundus began, but then wasn't entirely sure how to continue.

Unruffled, Childermass crouched down by the fireplace and began to build up logs and kindling. Before long he had the beginnings of a cheerful fire going in the grate, and he turned to see Mr Segundus still standing in the doorway.

“Does Norrell not pay for your rooms?” Segundus blurted out.

“He does, when I produce a bill,” Childermass said as he stood up and approached Segundus. “So I may choose. And sometimes, I choose this.” He held out his hands. “You are soaked, sir.”

It was quite true, and Segundus gratefully allowed Childermass to peel him out of his overcoat and jacket. He was left to attend to his own shoes and stockings, which were likewise sodden. Childermass took off his own outer layers and hung everything on a thin string in front of the fire.

Segundus felt a thrill shoot through him at being in such a place, in such a state and with such a man. It was quite outside anything he was used to, and he found he liked it very much.

“You can sit,” Childermass said, gesturing to the blanket pile. “It's not much -”

“It's very fine,” Segundus said, sitting himself down on a blanket with his half-bare legs out in front of him. “How did you find it?”

Childermass shrugged one shoulder as he leant down to open a saddlebag. “It is not so difficult, if you care to look. Are you hungry?”

As if on cue Segundus' stomach growled, and he admitted that it had been a very long time since lunch. Childermass produced a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and a jar of soup and took them to the fireplace.

How remarkable, Segundus thought as he watched him, that they should meet again like this. He found he was hugging his knees to himself and smiling.

“What's so funny?” Childermass rumbled. He still had his back to Segundus as he poured out the soup into a pot.

“I was just thinking,” said Segundus, “How unlikely this all is. How glad I am of it.”

“I confess I had not counted on it, nor foreseen anything like it.” He paused to lick a smear of soup off his thumb and Segundus lost the thread of the conversation for a moment. When he was able to hear again Childermas was saying, “A relief, to know things are not written in stone.”

Segundus made a small noise of agreement and thankfully the matter was not pressed further. As the soup began to steam over the fire he asked, “Why aren't you with Mr Norrell? I had thought you were more his shadow than his servant.”

Childermass cast a quick, dark look over his shoulder. “He has new shadows,” he said before taking the soup off the fire. “And work for me here.”

Segundus should not have found it endearing, but he did very much like being able to add to his now rapidly growing catalogue of Facts Pertaining to John Childermass, even if _Jealous of Mr Norrell's new friends_ was not a particularly virtuous element of his character.

They shared the soup right out of the pot, using pieces of bread to soak it up. They had to sit close together on the blankets to facilitate this method of eating, not that either of them would complain. Childermass placed one arm behind Segundus, leaning in to him as he scooped up his meal. For a time the patter of rain was the only sound between them, and Segundus took the opportunity to enjoy the heat between their bodies and the certain knowledge that they were quite hidden from the rest of the world.

“What is it brought you away from York?” Childermass asked, leaning in closer again so that he was pressed against Segundus' back.

“Work, also. The search for books.” He shivered. “The usual sort of business.”

“What business is that?” he pressed a kiss to the back of Segundus' neck, light and lingering. “The same that had you relocate to Starecross?”

“Are you interrogating me, sir?”

Childermass breathed out a laugh, tickling the hairs on the back of Segundus' neck and sending tremors down his body. “It is my habit,” he said.

“Well, it is a bad one,” said Segundus. He could bear it no longer: he kicked the empty pot away and turned around to press a kiss to Childermass' lopsided smile.

He got one hand into Childermass' hair and set the other to untying his cravat. Childermass, for his part, used his own free hand to tilt Segundus' head just so, allowing him to lick into his mouth. He wasn't sure which of them made the first sound, and it scarcely mattered. Segundus quickly turned his attention to the buttons on Childermass' waistcoat, attempting to undo them whilst keeping up their kiss.

“Let me -” Childermass growled, pulling away and making far quicker work of the buttons. He shed the garment in an impatient shrug and then yanked Segundus towards him by the neck of _his_ waistcoat before starting the process over. “I need to know, sir,” Childermass began, but Segundus cut him off.

“John,” he said, though it was more of a gasp.

Childermass grinned like something feral as he pushed the waistcoat away and threw it back. “ _John_ ,” he agreed, “How much do you know of this? Of what we might do?”

Segundus blushed from his hairline to his toes. “You have the sum of my experience, sir. John. I mean to say, I have read a great deal, or at least as much as I could, but often it is not terribly clear nor immediately obvious. I suppose I might say I have had some success in the practical application of my theories, but the book had made certain omissions...”

Childermass smiled a more tender smile and kissed him in a soothing fashion. It had the desired effect, and Segundus relaxed somewhat in his arms. “Not even at school?”

“Oh, school. I was a shy, scrawny thing.” He reached up to trace the line of Childermass' nose as he spoke. “I slipped through largely unscathed.”

Childermass caught Segundus' finger between his teeth and bit it gently before taking it into his mouth and lathing the small hurt with his tongue. Segundus gasped and rose up on his knees.

“I was a very conscientious student,” he continued, as Childermass turned his attention to his palm, kissing and biting in equal measure. “M-my enthusiasm for learning was... often remarked upon.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Childermass. He let Segundus' hand go free and pulled with impatience at his shirt, dragging it out of his breeches and off his body in a few short moments.

The air was cold against his skin, but he only had to feel it for a brief second before Childermass had his hands back upon him, marking a route from his shoulders to the band of his breeches. He scraped a nail over one of Segundus' nipples. A spark of sensation shot through him and he cried out with it.

Childermas grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him close, whispering against his lips: “You must still be quiet, John.” He grasped Segundus' rear and lifted him enough to lay him on his back on the blankets. “Can you be quiet?”

Segundus nodded, though in that moment he might just as readily have sworn allegiance to Napoleon. Childermass crawled over him, bracing his forearms on either side of Segundus and leaning down to apply his lips and teeth to Segundus' jaw, his neck, his collar bones. Every touch made Segundus writhe a little more, and by the time Childermass was pressing the flat of his tongue to each of nipples in turn, it was all Segundus could do to restrain himself to panting whimpers. He had wrapped his legs around Childermass' hips and begun a gentle rocking back and forth, bringing their heated groins together.

“Oh, _John_ ,” Segundus hissed as he fisted his hands in Childermass' shirt. “I could remain here forever. I would never leave, never, if you only asked me to stay.”

Childermass looked up, fixing him with a dark frown. “Do not make false promises,” he said. Before Segundus could protest Childermass resumed biting at the soft skin of Segundus' abdomen, and all words were driven from him.

He continued in this fashion until Segundus was reduced to a shaking, keening creature quite incapable of higher thought or reasoning. Childermass seemed to delight in seeing him so, and, judging him ready, pulled away enough to get both of their breeches open and finally, _finally,_ take them both in hand.

It did not take long after that. For a few wondrous moments Segundus was a thing of pure sensation, weighed down by Childermass, stroked by him, kissed by him. When he reached his peak and swiftly tumbled over it was with Childermass' name on his lips.

He found himself smiling broadly and struggling to keep his eyes open, but he had just enough presence of mind left to join his hand to Childermass' to help him find his release, which he gasped into Segundus' ear before collapsing with a long sigh.

For a time he drifted in a pleasant haze, only vaguely aware of Childermass' solid warmth beside him. He opened his eyes at one moment to share a slow kiss, and the next to find Childermass cleaning the mess between them with a dampened handkerchief, and no sense at all of how much time had passed between. A third time and he found himself being draped in a blanket. His jacket had been rolled up and slipped under his head, making a quite tolerable pillow.

“There now,” Childermass said as he settled and draped an arm across him. “Back to sleep, sir.”

With a tired mumble, he complied.

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And it was all going so well...

Wakefulness came upon him with the slow certainty of sunrise. His limbs felt heavy and he was all over worn-out. What an unexpected turn of events, Segundus thought to himself. Not that he hadn't hoped, dreamed, even, that they would have another chance to meet and explore each other further, but he had never been able to see it clear, nor contrive any method of _making_ it happen. And yet here they were, once more entwined thanks to some wonderful twist of fate.

Although, he realised as he came into greater wakefulness, they were not entwined any longer. He was quite alone in his bundle of blankets, and a little chilly. For a moment he thought himself abandoned, but he fought down that surge of feeling. He opened his eyes a crack and saw that Childermass was already up, dressed and sitting beside the fire. He was shuffling a deck of stained and ragged cards. Abandoned for a card game, then.

Segundus chose to remain quiet and watched as Childermass dealt out two lines of cards in front of him and turned them over one by one. Small expressions crossed his face, curiosity and annoyance followed by a slight flicker of relief. Segundus was not given to voyeurism, but he found he rather enjoyed it.

“You are spying on me, sir,” Childermass rumbled as he turned over the last card. He glanced at Segundus and flickered a smile at him.

“I am discovered,” Segundus sighed, sitting up and stretching out. His limbs and back felt sore from the hard sleeping arrangements, but his heart was so at peace that he did not much mind.

“There is hot water,” Childermass said, tilting his head slightly to indicate a pot on the fire. “If you have your toilet.”

Segundus groaned. His things were in his knapsack, which seemed a dreadful distance from his present position. “I am not certain I can move,” he said, lying back down on his jacket. “You have quite ruined me, Mr Childermass.”

“Is that right,” Childermass said in a tone suggestive of disinterest, though he was betrayed by a glint in his eye.

“Completely,” Segundus sighed. “I fear I shan't be able to leave this bed.”

Childermass rose with a predatory twist of his mouth and came to kneel beside Segundus. “I am afraid you must, sir,” he said, and he pulled Segundus into a sitting position with a firm grip on his shoulders. “The day is waiting.”

Segundus shook his head and pulled Childermass closer by his cravat in order to greet his lover in the proper manner. Childermass' mouth opened to him with gratifying ease, and for a long minute they shared between them soft murmurs of contentment and the taste of smoke.

It was Childermass who brought an end to it, putting a hand quite firmly on Segundus' bare chest and pushing him backwards. “We cannot,” he said, though not without some regret. He rubbed their noses together, as if fighting his own impulse to return to the kiss, then broke away completely.

He stood again and went to fetch Segundus' bag and the pot of water from the stove, bringing both items to the humble bed and seating himself back on the floor behind Segundus with a leg on either side of him.

“You could have woken me earlier,” Segundus traced a finger down Childermass' left stocking. Childermass was digging through his bag, and Segundus might have remembered to protest if he had felt anything other than utterly serene.

“It is not right to wake a gentleman,” said Childermass. “Not when he looks so peaceful. Sit back, sir.”

Segundus leaned back so he was resting against Childermass. “What was your card game, John? It seemed quite absorbing.”

The laugh that Childermass made then had no sound, but Segundus felt its vibration through all the points where their bodies touched. Childermass began an explanation about the Cards of Marseilles, which interested Segundus greatly, as he had certainly not taken Childermass for an occultist. He had thought him the most practical and pragmatic of fellows, and he told him as much.

“We all must have our secrets,” Childermass said, “And our contradictions. Or what would be the point in any of it?”

He had discovered Segundus' wash kit in the depths of his knapsack and throughout his elucidation on the Cards had evidently been preparing a lather, which he now began to apply to Segundus' face with rough strokes of the brush.

Segundus tipped his head back, leaning in to the crook of Childermass' neck and allowing him better access. It had been a long time since anyone had shaved him, and now that it was imminent he felt very much the spoiled gentleman. Which put him immediately in mind of that _other_ spoiled gentleman who must surely receive this exact same attention.

“Do you do this for Norrell?” The question was out of him before he could examine it, and he regretted it almost at once.

“When he asks,” Childermass said. “He prefers to be dressed for it, of course.”

Segundus opened his eyes to look up at Childermass. There was the light of humour in his eyes, and Segundus' unfolded razor held up in one hand.

“Was that the question you were asking?” He laid the razor against Segundus' throat and drew it up in a clean stroke, scraping skin and pushing lather upwards.

“I suppose it was.”

“Whatever other sins Mr Norrell may be guilty of, this is not one of them.” He moved to shave Segundus' cheek, his work light and quick. He kept up a steady pressure on the opposite side of Segundus' head with his other hand so he could not move accidentally. For his part, Segundus found he was holding each of Childermass' shins in a rather desperate grip.

“I did not think -”

“I know. But you might begin to think.” He turned Segundus' head so that he could see to the other cheek. “He does not allow himself to be compromised so.”

“You are not afraid of compromise, then?”

“No. I am careful about it. But not afraid. May I ask you a question now, sir?”

“Of course.”

He drew the razor up Segundus' jawline in a long, steady line. “Are you abandoning magic?”

“No, indeed!”

A moment of quiet followed, and then: “You have books on pedagogy in your bag.”

Segundus cursed himself for a fool. Of course he had the books, obtained in the city the day before. There were also a few introductory texts on magic, which Childermass could scarcely have overlooked. He tried to think of a reasonable answer, but he was altogether distracted by Childermass' damnable hands.

“Are you to become a schoolmaster? I suppose you would have the temperament for it.”

“John -”

“And yet you will not give up magic.” Childermass sighed and released him. “Which would be very improper for an educator. What is it you are planning?”

Segundus considered lying, or at least attempting it, though he could not help but think that would be an insult to both of them. Childermass was wiping the last of the soap off his face with a cloth when he finally said, “We propose a school for magicians.”

“Well, that is a very foolish notion.”

“Is it?” Segundus felt a prickling of tension up his spine.

“You know what Norrell is about, and what sanctions have been imposed on those who go against him. You must surely know that he will never allow it.”

“I do not believe Mr Norrell is my mother.”

Childermass let his arms fall away. “Who do you think he will send to shut you down?”

“Perhaps you should voice your disagreement, if you have any. Or perhaps simply refrain from snooping in a gentleman's things!”

Quite abruptly, Childermass stood and, saying nothing further, began the process of gathering Segundus' clothes from the various places they had been flung the night before.

Segundus felt as if he had just been pushed down a flight of stairs and now had no concept any more of what was the floor and what was the ceiling. The chill of the morning air seemed more prominent without Childermass behind him, and Segundus' physical interest had waned as quickly as if he had been doused in cold water.

Childermass continued not to speak as Segundus dressed himself, preferring to lean upon the window sill and smoke a pipe. He cast not one look over his shoulder, either, and Segundus became more upset with every button he fastened. Childermass was not the _government_ , nor was he even _Norrell_ , so why should he take it upon himself to impose their viewpoints on him?

“There is no law against it,” he said as he put on his waistcoat and frowned at the far wall.

“Nor is there any provision for it,” Childermass countered. “And there certainly will be a law, if my master hears of it.”

“And how will he hear of it, Mr Childermass?” Segundus found to his most extreme annoyance that two of the buttons on his waistcoat had been pulled clean off, leaving only two curls of green thread. “Are we not all entitled to our secrets?”

Childermass did not answer, which only served to aggravate Segundus further.

“It will do Mr Norrell any harm,” he said, though he received no acknowledgement. “He cannot suppose to be the only magician in England for all time. What of Mr Strange? And what if something should befall either of them? What then for magic?”

If Childermass would not speak to him anymore then he had no cause to remain in the man's judgmental presence. He packed up his belongings with little care for their order and marvelled at how quickly a morning could sour. How much of this would Norrell soon know, he wondered, and how long before a magistrate appeared at Starecross to put an end to their whole endeavour? What a fool he had been. A weak and vapid fool. 

By the time he had found his hat and pulled on his overcoat his mood was stoked to something approaching rage, and he found himself compelled to speak again: “It was devilish of you, sir, to let me think there was an understanding between us when all the while you simply sought to further your master's cause.”

“That is not quite fair, Mr Segundus,” said Childermass, turning around at last but maintaining his slouched posture at the sill. “I have not lied to you. We are not on opposite sides of this.”

“Then I would thank you not to scold me like a child!” said Segundus hotly. “You cannot chide me for having my own opinions, sir!”

Childermass puffed out smoke.

Segundus would very much have liked to deliver a very clever and very cutting parting statement, but he was choked by irritation, and so did his very best to convey his displeasure in the briskness with which he left the house.

The cold morning breeze did little to soothe the heat of his anger, but it did at least grant him some space in which to think. Damn John Childermass! And damn John Segundus for allowing himself to be so ruffled. He had let this thing between them rise above his better ambitions, and for that he would have to make amends, at the very least to Mr Honeyfoot. If Norrell meant to ruin them then Segundus meant to fight with everything at his command, be it ever so little.

He bought a newspaper before getting on the coach bound for York, and a small meat pie. He thought that some reading would calm him, but when he found the announcement from the Magicians' Society of Manchester that it had been permanently disbanded as of yesterday afternoon he felt his ire rise once more, and was compelled to throw the whole thing out of the window. He could see now why Norrell feared compromise, and hoped with all his heart that he had not sold Starecross for a few moments of distraction.

For a time he stewed in his seat, ignoring the disdain of his fellow passengers and twisting his hands in his lap. He scratched his face near Leeds and found a patch of stubble that Childermass had missed. Damn him! To make a man feel all the things that Segundus had been feeling, and then to go and make him feel so awfully small and stupid for doing what he knew was right. Damn him. Segundus wrapped a finger around one of the button-threads on his waistcoat and stared out at the countryside for the remainder of his miserable journey home.

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions, correspondence and the not-so lonely moors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note on time: starting this I didn't realise that the novel and series take place over 10 years, so time is going to be a little messed up in this fic. It's more reflective of the tone of the series, and will probably stop making sense at some point, if it hasn't already. My apologies for that!

 

For the next several weeks Segundus was in such a black mood that his work became quite careless, and in a fit of irritation Mr Honeyfoot assigned the garden to him and instructed him not to come back inside until the bracken was suitably under control. Segundus took to his task with some vigour, finding exceptional satisfaction in swinging an axe at the tough roots until they shattered and yielded to him. He was not normally one for outdoor activities, having been a sickly child in addition to a shy one, but as the days went by he discovered that the exhaustion of physical labour was just about enough to quiet his internal chorus of regret.

There was no word from London against their school for some length of time, long enough that Segundus began to wonder if he had been entirely too hasty in his judgement of Mr Childermass. He did, at least until he read of Jonathan Strange's consignment to the Peninsula, and felt a renewed anger rise in him. What a scheme: to be rid of Strange and make everyone involved appear the hero!

He did not think he had ever been subject to a period of such sustained emotion in his life before now, and he found it quite enlivening. He felt most days as if he were lit with some ancient purpose, and every bramble that he cut to splinters only added fuel to his burning heart.

“I am not sure you are quite yourself, Mr Segundus,” said Mr Honeyfoot one evening over their customary shared meal. “It would not do for you to be overworked...”

“I am fine, sir,” said Segundus, though he wished very dearly that he could have told his friend all that was swirling in his mind. “I am anxious for us to make a success of this, that is all.”

Mr Honeyfoot smiled then and held up his cup. “To Starecross Hall. And to us.”

Segundus joined the toast. As he drank his wine he could only hope that his transgressions would not be thing that ruined them both.

* * *

By the time the letter came he had quite forgotten that he was meant to be on edge, and had in fact settled in to his life at Starecross. They had cleared out most of the rooms, made several of them habitable and on one memorable afternoon had swept the kitchen chimney, which had left them both blackened and giggling at their own foolishness.

All in all things were developing quite nicely, so when Mr Honeyfoot's footman brought the letter Mr Segundus barely glanced at the writing on the front before opening it. The curious thing was that there was a second letter folded inside the first, and curiosity drove him to open the inner letter first.

 _Mr Segundus_ , it read, _I hope this finds you better disposed than when last we met. The rain in Manchester could dampen any man's spirit, and I am sorry that you were drenched in it._

The truly irritating thing was that he could hear Childermass' voice dripping off the page, and he was very glad that he was presently alone in the little upstairs study where nobody could see the bright colour it brought up on his face.

There was nothing more to the letter, and no mark to indicate its sender, which was a very useful precaution indeed. He stowed the note in his inside jacket pocket and turned his attention to the main letter.

 _For the Immediate Attention of Messrs Honeyfoot & Segundus,_ it began, and Segundus sighed. Here it was at last, then. The letter continued in an official and threatening vein for two pages, and was signed at the end by _J. Childermass, on Behalf of Mr Gilbert Norrell, English Magician_. Segundus would very much have liked to tear the whole thing to pieces, but in the end he thought better of it and took it to Mr Honeyfoot.

“However did they find out?” Mr Honeyfoot wrung his hands as Segundus finished reading the letter to him. “We were so careful! Oh, I suppose it must have been someone at the solicitor's, or one of the labourers we employed...”

“I suppose,” Segundus agreed, silently cursing himself. “It hardly matters. I have no intention of altering our course.”

Mr Honeyfoot beamed. “I am with you, Mr Segundus!” he cried and clapped Segundus on the back. He was surprisingly strong for his stature, and the blow made Segundus uncertain on his feet for a moment.

When he regained himself, he found that he too was smiling, and standing a little taller.

_* * *_

From then on a letter would arrive at Starecross every few days. The content did not much change, and after a fortnight of this Segundus took to simply throwing them directly into the fire. Watching the paper catch and shrivel was quite satisfying, if perhaps a little petty. There were no further private communications from Childermass, and in any case Segundus no longer cared to read them.

In the meantime he received several letters from his London friends discussing with much enthusiasm the plight of Lady Pole, who had been confined to her house for some months. There was also a great deal of discussion about Jonathan Strange and what miracles he might perform on the Continent, and no small amount of harassing Segundus for further details about his brief meeting with that particular gentleman. He rather enjoyed his limited reputation as a friend of magicians, though he was careful not to give away all that he knew. Gossip was useful, but he was not much good at it, and preferred to keep up a cheerful, if incomplete, narrative.

Despite the letters, Segundus was increasingly able to forget Childermass for lengths of time, and found enormous peace and satisfaction in helping Mr Honeyfoot organise the interior of the house, setting up which were to be classrooms and allocating dormitories for the boys and bedrooms for the staff. They also spent a great deal of time in their library. It was the sum of their personal libraries, since their goal was to provide a well-rounded education to the young magicians of England, and arranged their books on botany, history, myth and magic in the most pleasing orders they could devise.

It was really only in the late evenings, once he was alone in bed and the candles were snuffed out, that Segundus experienced any vexation from his mind. Only then did moments return to him in a surge of memory that he could not ignore no matter how hard he fought. The press of lips against his neck, the warmth of hands on bare skin, the smell of pipe smoke and the bitter taste of completion, all these things crowded in upon him, demanding his attention. Weak vessel that he was, he allowed them space inside his head. Soft kisses, biting kisses, desperate kisses... one memory led to the next and before too long his prick would stiffen under his nightshirt and he had to very carefully steer his mind back to safe waters. The names and uses of plants. The languages of birds. He kept his hands at his side and on top of the bedspread, and sooner or later he drifted to sleep.

For a while life was tolerable for John Segundus, and in fact better than that, for he had a purpose in life and a dear friend with which to share it. It was something of a shock to this equilibrium, then, on the morning that the last of Mr Honeyfoot's furniture and books were being moved in and he had taken it into his head to paint the sign for the door, that they should be visited by the shadowy creature himself.

The ravens announced his arrival, cawing and fluttering from their perches in disapproval as a stranger rode up the lane. On laying eyes on him Segundus felt in himself a renewed anger, an outrage at so blatant an intrusion. He resolved then and there that whatever happened, Childermass would not enter Starecross, and he stormed down the path to block him.

“You cannot do this, sirs,” Childermass said, and that seemed to be the bulk of his argument. He warned them of Norrell's wrath, and advised them to seek _some other business_. There was a curious lack of emotion about him, even as he wound both Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus into a violent froth.

“Damn you, sir!” shouted Mr Honeyfoot as Childermass turned to ride away again. “And damn Mr Norrell!”

It was quite the most shocking language Segundus had heard from Mr Honeyfoot. Unable to bear the hurt being done to him, Mr Segundus abandoned reason, shoved his palette and brush into his friend's hands and began to follow Childermass.

“This way of doing business will come back and haunt him!” Mr Honeyfoot cried down the lane after them.

Segundus took up the chorus as he hurried after Childermass: “It is most deplorable, sir!” His voice echoed back at him from the hedgerows. “It is the least gentlemanly behaviour I have ever encountered!”

Childermass did not turn around, though he must surely have heard. Segundus remembered how he had been that morning in Manchester and felt his stomach lurch again in anger.

“I had not taken you for a brigand,” Segudus said, quickening his pace to close the distance between them. “In fact I had thought you quite honourable, in your way. But now I see that you are a thug and a lackey! You and your kind would raise Norrell above us all, when all we have ever wanted is to enjoy this time along with him! None of us pretends to be his better, sir, nor even his equal, but we do claim a right to inhabit the same sphere.”

They had gone some distance by this time, following the little country roads that criss-crossed the moors in this part of Yorkshire. They were muddy and potholed, and Segundus had to exercise a certain amount of caution in an attempt to keep his shoes clean. Throughout his talking he had to cut around the largest of the puddles and divots, sometimes slipping and splashing muddy water up his stockings. Childermass remained impassive, neither slowing nor speeding his horse, so Segundus decided to continue for as long as his voice held out.

“And since we are discussing it,” he continued, his anger showing no signs of abating, “It is monstrous what you have conspired to do to Mr Strange, and to Lady Pole, and whoever else you have bewitched in your master's name. And further, sir -”

By the time Segundus judged them to have travelled three miles from Starecross his voice was growing hoarse and it seemed to him that he no longer had any control over the words leaving him. He was no longer railing against Childermass directly, but was voicing his disappointment and regret at ever having met any person by that name. His legs were feeling a little tired and his feet sore, but these were distant sensations.

Childermass led them down a much narrower lane, barely more than a groove in the earth, and then off that and onto the moorside proper.

“I can also assure you that one letter would have been quite enough, sir! I wonder at how much paper you have wasted in your tireless crusade against -”

He came up short against the back of Childermass' horse, and took a quick step back to preserve his dignity. He blinked and looked at their surroundings with the proper gaze. They were in a small copse on the moor, a knot of wild trees bowed by the wind to create a sort of natural lean-to big enough for a cosy party.

Childermass dismounted and as he lead the horse to a low branch, he cocked a smirk at Segundus. “Run out of air, did we?”

Segundus puffed himself up and raised a finger to deliver his final, crushing blow, but Childermass turned his back on him again to secure the horse, and it quite knocked the wind out of him. He wanted Childermass to look at him, acknowledge him, and so was prepared to wait.

But Childermass did not turn. He bowed his head and held his hands out slightly from his sides. Segundus heard a faint whispering, and felt himself so aggrieved that he reached out to grab Childermass' shoulder, intending to turn him around bodily and force him to answer his charges.

Instead, what happened was this: the moment Segundus' hand touched Childermass' shoulder he was aware of a rising wind, although the leaves on the trees encircling them did not flutter any more. He was keenly conscious of the way the tree roots grew in the earth under his feet, how far they spread across the moor and how rich the soil was here. He felt something like a thunderclap in his head and he gasped, but he could not drag his hand away. He dug his fingers in to Childermass' overcoat as the wind shrieked down the hills and lightning forked across his vision.

When it passed Childermass seemed to slump slightly, as a man who had just been through some enormous effort, and Segundus took hold of him by both his shoulders and turned him around. Childermass' eyes were closed and he was breathing a little heavily.

“Childermass,” Segundus said, feeling suddenly as though his neck cloth were too tight. “You... was that _magic_?”

A slow smile spread across Childermass' face and he opened his dark eyes to burn Segundus with his gaze. “A simple spell, sir, to make sure we are not disturbed.”

With the sound of his own blood singing in his hears Segundus took hold of Childermass' face and pulled him down to a kiss. It was more of a rough pressing of mouths than anything romantic or refined. He simply wanted _Childermass_ in whatever form he could get, and at present that involved cupping the back of his head and kissing him with the full application of his lips and tongue. He whimpered when Childermass pulled back.

“I thought you were angry,” Childermass said, and his voice was lower than usual. “I seem to recall you describing it at length. I brought us here so we could -”

“You are a magician,” Segundus breathed before going up on his toes to bite at Childermass' lower lip.

Childermass ran his hands up inside Segundus' jacket and slipped their tongues together. Pushing Segundus away from him again he said, “It is a spell that calls upon the protection of the trees.”

Segundus groaned and pressed himself up against Childermass, chest to chest.

“I read of it in Mr Norrell's library some years ago,” he said, “And have sometimes used it when I had need of a quiet afternoon.”

Segundus pulled at Childermass' cravat until the blasted knot came free and the expanse of his throat was bared. He set himself to biting at all the skin he could find as Childermass made a low groan.

“I cannot do it where there are many trees,” he gasped. “I am not so powerful -”

Segundus broke away and looked up at him with the basest lust he had ever felt. “You are a _magician_ , John.”

There was too much between them, too much cloth and air. He reached down with one hand to cup the front of Childermass' breeches and found him already hard. This sent a deep excitement burning through Segundus, a feeling of power that he did not often crave. He started to open the buttons but Childermass took hold of his wrist and pulled him away.

“Wait,” he said, and bit the finger of his glove to pull it from his hand. He threw it and the second down on the grass. “Just for a moment.”

He shrugged off his overcoat and jacket in short order. His hat was already lost, Segundus did not care where. He made to pull off his own jacket, but Childermass stopped him with both hands on his hips.

“Let me, sir,” he whispered into Segundus' ear. He paused only to bite down on the lobe and worry it briefly between his teeth. “I have put some thought to the matter.”

Segundus shuddered all over as Childermass sank down to his knees in front of him. “Oh -” He began, but before he could think of anything more sensible to say, Childermass had opened the front of his breeches for him and drawn his prick into the air.

Childermass looked up, as broad a smile on his face as Segundus had ever seen. Segundus used both hands to push the hair out of Childermass' face, even as the black spark of desire threatened to burst into full flame inside him. When Childermass blew softly on his crown Segundus flinched and tried to suppress a moan.

“There is no need, John,” Childermass said. He leaned in closer and ran his hands up the backs of Segundus' thighs. “There is no-one for miles. And the trees will keep us safe.” With that being said, Childermass leant forwards and took Segundus' cockhead into his mouth.

Segundus tipped back his head and gasped. Competing sensations of _warmth_ and _wet_ engulfed him, and he gripped Childermass by his hair, trying not to pull him too hard and yet unable to want anything but _more_. He groaned when Childermass took more of him past his wonderful lips, then let slip a strangled cry when Childermass pulled away. Segundus looked down at him, indignant and shocked, but all he saw was a smirk and eyes that were black as coal. Words would not come to him, but Childermass was mercifully adept at reading him and took him back inside.

When Childermass squeezed his buttocks to pull him inwards Segundus cried out to the blue skies above them. Childermass began a slow bobbing of his head, moving with the grace and certainty that could only come through practice. Segundus felt a hot bubble of jealousy burst inside him – who was he, this other man upon whom Childermass had studied this craft? Who was he and what would it take for Segundus to wipe out his memory entirely? He looked down and saw that his lover was looking up at him with wild eyes. Segundus cupped his face and stroked his cheeks with both his thumbs. His breaths came ragged and wild.

It would not be much longer, he feared. He had denied himself for too long, been exposed to too much of a shock and too much sensation to be able to last as long as he might like.

“John -” he started, but again Childermass knew what he was about and immediately pulled away. “Oh, no, please -”

“Not yet,” Childermass said, rising back to his feet. He took Segundus by the neck and pulled him in for a crushing kiss. He ripped Segundus' jacket from his shoulders and threw it upon the ground then pushed Segundus down on top of it. He went to his knees again, crawling up between Segundus' legs and laying hands on Segundus' breeches.

“I d-dreamed about you,” Segundus confessed as Childermass pulled his trousers down, wrenching everything else along with them so his legs were quite bare. The hairs on them stood up in the sudden chill.

“What did you dream?”

“Your … hands.” It was difficult to talk, to remember anything at all when Childermass was settling between his legs and contemplating his manhood with the keen interest of a kestrel after a mouse.

He glanced up and smiled. “I see,” he said, and reached down to kiss Segundus, propping himself up on one elbow and drawing out heated moans between them. “Like this?” he said as he wrapped his hand around Segundus' prick and drew it upwards in a slow, torturous stroke.

Segundus could only nod, which made Childermass bare more teeth.

“Or perhaps,” he said, leaning in close enough for his ragged hair to tickle Segundus' nose and neck, “Perhaps something else?” He sat up, making Segundus whimper and try to draw him back. He made a soft shushing noise and then said, “Have you...”

“What?” Segundus said, a trifle impatiently, concerned only that Childermass had stopped touching him.

Childermass huffed what might have been a laugh and kissed the soft skin behind Segundus' ear. He pressed his thumb against Segundus' lips. “Would you enjoy my hands elsewhere?” He paused again, looking deeply into Segundus' eyes. “Inside of you?”

For a moment Segundus heard nothing, saw nothing, and felt only the pressure of Childermass against him. When he regained control of his senses it was to see Childermass smirking around two of his fingers, which he was sucking with some intent.

This was an area upon which his book, which he kept now in a locked box concealed under his bedframe, had been necessarily vague. There were some references to _certain acts_ which could land a fellow in gaol, or worse. In fact the whole of the work was designed as a method of circumventing buggery entirely, and so presumed a certain foreknowledge of its reader. Segundus had some notion of what it might entail but at that moment felt intensely under-prepared and told Childermass as much.

“I would do nothing to hurt you,” he said, having removed his fingers and kissed Segundus to gentle him. “May I?”

Segundus nodded, and Childermass crawled back down until his beard was tickling Segundus' belly. He laughed, he could not help himself, and Childermass smiled at him before moving his wetted hand underneath Segundus, tilting up his hips and then resting his fingers against that place that no other person had ever touched. Segundus gasped and scrabbled in the ground for purchase.

“Easy, John,” Childermass advised, then dipped his head to mouth around the base of Segundus' cockstand. He kept up an exploratory pressure with his fingers, and as he moved his lips and tongue Segundus found he worried less and felt more. He spread his legs, allowing Childermass greater access to him, and made free use of his voice to moan and whimper in equal measure. If he had been able to step outside of himself he would have blushed to the roots of his hair to hear himself, and thanked Childermass with all his heart for the protection of the trees. As it was, all that concerned him was sensation, anticipation and John.

After some minutes of patient attention, and when Segundus had relaxed completely, Childermass returned his mouth to the tip of Segundus' prick and in the same moment pressed a fingertip quite firmly _in_.

Segundus gasped and his back arched. What a sensation! To have himself breached by another, if only a little, was … was... he could not even conceive of the word to describe it. There was a low burning as Childermass pulled the finger back and pushed in again, a little further. When Segundus could gather himself enough to look down he would see Childermass' eyes fixed upon him, and it would calm the singing in his nerves.

At length Childermass, who Segundus thought must be elbow-deep in him but had in fact only gone so far as the second joint of his finger, touched something inside him that ignited a bright, hot fire inside him. He shouted with surprise and arousal and felt Childermass groan around his cock. He did it again and Segundus hooked his legs around Childermass, curled his toes and fought to breathe. A third time, in combination with a a particular motion of his tongue, and Segundus was overcome by an orgasm like a gunshot, brutal and unanticipated. He shouted and ripped up a handful of dirt as he spent himself in Childermass' mouth.

Minutes later, when his heart was beating again and he was able to draw breath, he opened his eyes. “John,” he said weakly, and held out his hands to Childermass, who was watching him with his usual deep look. With Segundus' attention firmly upon him he ran out his tongue to lick up the mess that had been made upon his face and if he had not be soon thoroughly wrung out already Segundus would certainly have attempted a second climax at the sight of it.

He could help Childermass only a little as he raised himself up, kneeling with a leg either side of Segundus' waist, and unfastened his breeches. He gripped Childermass' thighs and let out a small, throttled moan as Childermass took himself in hand. Segundus made a noise of protest and moved his own hands to take over the task, though he remained lying down. Any greater movement seemed quite impossible.

Childermass was a vision such as poets might write great sonnets about: his head fell forwards, his hair hung in disarray, and his entire body undulated with the rhythm set by Segundus. He made a series of harsh, fast grunts and then went rigid with his release, which fell onto the earth by luck rather than design. Childermass laid himself down on the ground beside Segundus and caressed his face and hair, smiling a lazy and unguarded smile.

After a few minutes Segnudus became aware that he ought to say something. The sun had come out and dappled them both in pale light, catching in Childermass' hair and making him look a rough sort of angel. “That was,” he began, but discovered there were no more words forthcoming.

“It was,” Childermass agreed, leaning forwards to kiss him. Against his lips he whispered, “I did not intend it. I did not think I would be welcomed any longer.”

Segundus kissed him gently, then said, “You wounded me, it is true. But then I suspect I may have wounded you in kind.”

“I am sorry. For Manchester.”

Segundus pulled back, the better to look into Childermass' eyes. He saw no deception there, no guile. “I thank you,” he said, “Though I wish Norrell did not have whatever hold it is that he has over you, so that it might never have happened.”

“Me and Norrell have been a long time together,” Childermass said, a frown creasing his face. “We are not easily explained, but it is none of it against my wishes. I do what he asks me because I agree with him.”

“The school?”

“I think it is foolish in the current situation. You are not in London, you do not see how the ministers and gentlemen fall about to do as he asks. I would not much like to see you run out of the country, nor locked away for going against him.”

Segundus considered this for a moment, curling a lock of Childermass' hair around his finger as he did so. “You might have said some of this in Manchester.”

“Aye, I might've,” said Childermass, “If you had not bolted like a startled deer.”

“You would not even speak to me,” Segundus said, though he found he was not able to be quite as venomous as he had been previously. “I considered myself dismissed.”

“I do not often speak without being certain of what I should say. I may have been in my thoughts too long on that morning. I was afraid of losing you, and then you were lost.” He took Segundus' hand in his and kissed his fingertips. “Perhaps we are both foolish.”

“Perhaps. I am sorry, too, for my part. I do not want us to be enemies. Quite the opposite.” Here he kissed Childermass again to further his point. “Does Norrell really not know of Starecross?”

“He knows it is opened, and that it is yourself and Mr Honeyfoot at work in it. He does not know its purpose, not from me. I have meant everything I have said, though it may fall on deaf ears.”

Segundus felt a smile break across his face and he said, “Then you have my thanks, and the promise of an invitation to our opening fête.”

The matter thus being settled between them, they lay in a restful quiet until the cold air tickling at their exposed parts drove them to seek their clothes. Segundus felt it like a pain, knowing that each freshly reapplied layer took them further apart again. He longed for nothing so much as to remain in that glen for the rest of his days, and yet he knew with crushing certainty that it was not possible and that no amount of pleading with fate or faeries could make it otherwise. He was also keenly aware that Mr Honeyfoot would be wondering what had become of him.

“I am rarely in Yorkshire,” Childermass said, his back to Segundus as he rearranged his cravat. “I would not like to make you a promise I cannot soon keep.”

By this time Segundus was dressed. He went to Childermass and wrapped his arms around him, pressing face to shoulder and breathing in the smell of tobacco and dried rain. “We have already had more than most men of our kind,” he said softly. “Let us only say _until next time,_ and think ourselves lucky.”

They shared a lingering kiss then, and talked no more of the future. Childermass offered Segundus his horse to return to Starecross, but the complications of explaining and then retrieving the creature proved too taxing for either of them, so Segundus set out on foot, leaving Childermass to end the enchantment and return to Hurtfew at his own pace.

The sun was near set when Mr Segundus finally trod the last few feet up the path to Starecross. His heart was lifted somewhat by the sight of home, and he resolved, for the fourteenth or fifteenth time since departing the copse, to live cheerfully and continue in his noble scholastic ambition. It was easier to remember its importance, he discovered, when he was in sight of the building itself. They each had their paths to tread, and would simply have to trust that they would cross each other's again.

He found Mr Honeyfoot pacing anxiously in the front room and was swept up in a tight embrace the moment his friend laid eyes upon him.

“You are a mad young thing!” he exclaimed, still clutching Segundus' arms. “I was quite frantic with worry. What happened? Tell me everything!”

As he let himself be pulled into his customary chair beside the fire and began to tell his (much abbreviated) tale, he could not help but think himself extraordinarily fortunate to have such friends and to live in such times.

 

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Episode 3 and 4!

There was a painful sort of normalcy about life in the following months. In many ways it was a relief to be able to devote himself to the work at Starecross, but he also felt very keenly as if he had been cast adrift. It was all his own doing, of course. He could have begged Childermass to stay, or begged him to take him back to London with him. Neither was practical, and as for running away, where would they go? There was nowhere in England so lenient on men of their ilk than the North, and Segundus did not think he would do well on the continent.

In his youth he had been rather relieved that there was no money left for him to undertake a grand tour; his brothers had made it sound both exhausting and overwhelming, and though it lit them up with fire to describe it, the youngest Segundus had dreaded it since he was thirteen. He had smiled when the news was broken, quite surprising his father, and had instead asked only for the price of the coach fare to London, which was given to him on his twenty-first birthday.

Mr Honeyfoot and Mr Segundus passed their days in preparation for opening the school, though it was a slow and secretive business. They struggled to mend the leaking roof in the back of the house, and the stables were in such a dreadful state of repair that Mr Segundus sometimes lay awake on stormy nights worrying that they would collapse entirely in the high wind.

They shared stories from the newspapers over breakfast, paying special attention to anything concerning Jonathan Strange in the war or Mr Norrell's continuing exploits in the capital. Privately, Segundus enjoyed reading between the lines of the latter, imagining Childermass lurking in the illustrations and affecting nonchalance in the margins. He would never be able to say he agreed with what Norrell and his followers stood for, but for as long as their actions did not interfere at Starecross he was content enough.

He found his joy in books, and friendship, and used as little time as he was able to wonder what Childermass was doing or thinking at any given moment.

It was on one peaceful afternoon in the early autumn, following a taxing morning spent rearranging the furniture in the downstairs classroom, that Segundus drifted into sleep in his chair by the fire. He had thought only to close his eyes for a moment, entertaining himself briefly with a few choice, private memories whilst Mr Honeyfoot went to fetch hot tea and toast from the cook, but he fell all too quickly into slumber.

Dreams came more quickly than he thought was usual. He was standing on a wide moor in the eerie light of a thunderstorm. Clouds roiled over the horizon and swallowed the blue skies. He began to walk towards the storm.

The air seemed to thicken as he walked, it became harder to move and to breathe, but he kept going. He was full of the particular certainty of dreams, that he should walk and not stop until he was at his destination, which he would only know once he was there. As the storm clouds built into great towers of darkness he began to run, with dread building up like pressure inside his chest. He would be late, he thought. He would be too late.

He ran until he came to the top of a hill and could go no further, there being a sheer drop in front of him and no way down save climbing. He was directly beneath the darkest of the clouds, and as he looked up into the swirling maelstrom there was one, almighty, earth-shaking bang of thunder. He fell to his knees, struck by a hot bolt of pain in his shoulder. He cried out, but there was no-one to hear.

“John!”

He lurched forward in his chair, knocking the cup of tea out of Mr Honeyfoot's hands. It shattered on the stone floor, spilling tea in a wide puddle. His heart was hammering and he could barely breathe.

“It's quite alright, John, it was only a dream!” Mr Honeyfoot cried, gripping Segundus' shoulders and pushing him back in his chair to calm him.

“Oh, Mr Honeyfoot,” Segundus gasped, “But what a dream it was...”

“There now, you're awake,” said Mr Honeyfoot, easing his grip. “I was concerned for you, sir.”

“I am so sorry I frightened you,” Segundus said. He pressed a hand to his left shoulder, where the ghost of whatever injury had beset him in the dream still lingered. “And for breaking the teacup.” He slid out of his chair to pick up the pieces, scalding his fingers on the tea as he went.

“No need, Mr Segundus,” said Honeyfoot, smiling as he fell to help Segundus. “Teacups break. It is in their nature.”

Despite Mr Honeyfoot's effots to calm him, Segundus remained disquieted for the rest of the day. He retired to bed early, but did not sleep. He paced his room in his nightshirt, thinking deeply upon his dream. He did not know what had disturbed him so greatly. He had dreamed of nature before, had been lost out on the moors often and even been swept away by a rising flood on one chillingly memorable occasion, but each of those dreams had been easily dismissed. This dream was something else, and he was annoyed that he did not know what.

He spent the night by turns attempting to read and anxiously walking around with no clear purpose other than the need of motion. There was something he ought to be doing, he felt that very strongly, but he did not know what.

The answer presented itself a day later, by which time Segundus had become quite pale and drawn through lack of proper sleep. The newspapers were delivered in a bundle, and on the first page of each was the frantic story of an assault on Mr Norrell that had ended in the shooting of a servant. His stomach dropped and he snatched up the papers to find some greater insight into the matter, but none of them named the servant and none of them seemed to much care about his fate, preferring to speculate wildly on the identity of the shooter. The only solace he could find was that he was still alive when last seen by anyone willing to speak on the matter, though he had been greatly bloodied and groaning. There was not even a moment's doubt in Segundus' mind that the servant in question was Childermass.

Segundus collapsed into his seat. He did not know what to do. The proper thing (and the thing that would ruin them both, bullet wounds or no) would be to rush immediately to London and demand to be taken to Childermass' bedside. He had no doubt that Mr Norrell would employ the best doctors, but what of comfort? Who would hold his hand or wipe his brow? Perhaps it was a ridiculous urge, perhaps Childermass would not want to be fussed over, but the awful thing was that he just did not know. He did not know how grievously Childermass had been wounded, as the papers could not even agree on where he had been shot.

He sat upright and his hand flew to his left shoulder. “My God,” he breathed.

For the next two days he was in a frenzy of research, reading all he could about dreams, and in particular the dreams of magicians. It was all frustratingly vague, but by the time Mr Honeyfoot was determinedly steering him towards his warmed-up supper on the second evening (“You must eat, Mr Segundus. I have often felt thus consumed by my studies, but we must not neglect ourselves!”) he had built himself a rough idea of what might be done.

Bidding an early goodnight to Mr Honeyfoot, he collected a handful of long candles from the kitchen and locked himself in his bedchamber. He drew the curtains tight shut and put the first of the candles into a brass holder on his mantle.

The books he had read on the matter all agreed that the hardest part of sharing a dream, once one had managed the act itself, would be ending the connection and waking again. Although Segundus had now twice entered the state described in those books as _somnia simul_ (for he was quite certain, now, that the dream of thunder and pain had belonged to Childermass) he was aware that on each occasion he had the benefit of Mr Honeyfoot to shake him out of it. He could not take the same liberty in this instance, as he intended to dream for as long as possible, and did not know whether he was given to talking in his sleep. He must go it alone, and for that the ancient scholars recommended tying the dream to a burning candle, so that when the flame died he would be woken as if by a soft breeze.

It was all very well in theory, but since Segundus had not yet knowingly done magic of any kind he was understandably nervous. Taking a deep breath he lit the candle and closed his eyes. He whispered the words he had put to memory that afternoon and sank down into his wooden chair.

Sleep did not come to him. Irritated, he opened his eyes. He leapt up from his chair, full to the brim with nervous energy. This simply would not do! He must sleep, and by sleeping discover the fate of a gruff Yorkshireman to whom he had grown more than a little attached. Perhaps Childermass was not sleeping, he thought, rendering his dreams inaccessible. But surely a man who had been shot would be made to sleep? Even Mr Norrell would not make a man in such condition stay up to wait on him. There was the darker possibility, of course, that Childermass was no longer able to dream in this world or any other, but Segundus shoved it out of his mind. Childermass was alive, and it was Segundus who must organise himself and do the magic to prove it.

Thus resolved, Segundus tried to induce sleep. He hastily changed himself into his nightshirt, put the candle on his bedside table and crawled under the covers. All other lights being extinguished, save for the red glow of the fire, he felt quite cosy and warm. He remembered the remedy his mother had suggested to him when he was a child, and gradually let his whole body go slack. Tension fell away from him little by little, and he drove his thoughts to quiet places he had known in solitude. He thought of waterfalls and cotton sheets, of floating in a sun-speckled mill pond. Between one breath and the next, he fell asleep.

He stood in the corridor of what might have been a grand house, though the woodwork was chipped and the paper was peeling from the damp. He looked around and there he saw Childermass sitting in his shirtsleeves with his back against the wall his hands resting on his knees. Segundus' heart lurched in his chest – he was alive! - and he ran to him.

“Quiet,” said Childermass, and Segundus stopped immediately. “We must be quiet, sir.”

He slowed and sank softly to the floor beside Childermass. He saw with a sick lurch of his innards that there was blood on his shirt, his collar and neck. One of his hands was similarly stained.

“You are hurt,” Segundus whispered.

“Not so badly,” said Childermass. “They say I will not likely die of it.”

Segundus took the opportunity to study Childermass. His profile was much as he remembered, though his skin was pale and clammy and marked by deep circles of exhaustion under his eyes. “I am glad to hear it,” he said, smiling. “You gave me quite a fright.”

Childermass turned to look at him for the first time, and a small frown crossed his face. “Mr Segundus,” he said in a voice of some surprise. “I did not expect -”

Someone was crying behind the door opposite them. It was a small sound, one that did not wish to be heard and yet could not be contained. It rose from silence and what little colour was left in Childermass' face drained, leaving him sallow.

“Who is it?” Segundus asked, laying a hand on Childermass' arm.

He did not seem to notice it. He stared ahead at the closed door as the sound of crying grew more hopeless. It was certainly the voice of a woman, and the it was quite the most pitiable thing Segundus had ever heard.

“Can we not open the door?” Segundus felt himself unqualified to direct another man's dreams, but as Childermass was now trembling he thought it his duty to try. “Perhaps we can help her.”

“No,” said Childermass without hope. “That door is locked.”

Segundus drew breath to suggest their break it down when he felt a puff of warm air across his face and opened his eyes in his bedchamber at Starecross.

Damn it all! He had run down the candle in his dreaming with Childermass and got barely anywhere, or so it seemed to him at that moment. Although he was comforted by the knowledge that Childermass was not dead, nor apparently liable to die, he was greatly disturbed by the vision he had intruded on and felt a new wave of anxiousness. He dragged himself out of bed and fumbled in the darkness for a second candle which he lit before returning to the warmth under his covers.

This time he was walking with Childermass down a busy city street. It might have been London, but it was not any place that Segundus knew. The people all around them wore identical black outfits, and none of them had a face – only a smooth white surface like fine china. The awful sight of them made Segundus shudder and press closer to Childermass, who walked with his hat pulled down low over his own face and did not acknowledge him.

The dream shifted, and Segundus found he was standing in an office crammed with towers of creaking books. Dust danced in the yellow light spilling in from two tall windows. A figure Segundus recognised as Mr Norrell sat at his desk (which was itself laden with books of every size and age) reading an ancient tome as a huge tiger kept watch over his shoulder with bright amber eyes. Segundus gasped and leapt backwards in fright, almost toppling a pile of books.

“No need for that, sir,” said Childermass, low and warm in his ear. “He will not bite. Not before his time.”

Segundus turned to Childermass, who was leaning against a stack of books with his familiar smirk across his features. There was still blood on his collar but he was dressed now in his jacket and his waistcoat was properly done up.

“I have not seen you in this room before,” Childermass said, and his voice trickled down Segundus' spine, causing a series of fine tremors to pass through him.

A sheep dressed in a pink jacket trotted past them.

“I have never been in any room like this,” said Segundus in wonder.

Childermass took hold of Segundus' cravat and pulled him forwards. “Good,” he said, then shoved him back against the pillar of books to kiss him.

Segundus cried out in surprise, which served no purpose other than to give Childermass the opportunity to slip his tongue in where his lips had parted. Segundus braced his hands against Childermass' jacket, pulled back and hissed, “Sir! We are observed!” as he cast a nervous glance at Mr Norrell, the sheep and the tiger, which was the only creature to look back at him.

None of the others in the room seemed to concern Childermass overmuch, and he laughed indulgently against Segundus' neck before biting at his skin. Segundus gasped and clutched at Childermass, torn between the deeply-ingrained instinct to push him away and the even deeper one that demanded he pull closer. Childermass licked a broad stripe up his neck and kissed his earlobe. “I am going to have you, Mr Segundus,” he promised, “As I have wanted you for some time.”

Oh! Segundus thought, as Childermass slid his thigh between his legs and pushed upwards. He had set out only to be certain of Childermass' welfare and perhaps to soothe him in his fevered dreaming, not to satisfy his own urges, but as Childermass kissed him with heated desperation he quite forgot his noble intentions in favour of devoting himself to returning the affection he received in equal measure.

From across the room, the sheep let out an anguished _baa_ and Norrell turned a thin page in his book with a great deal of rustling.

Gasping, Segundus turned his face away from Childermass, who did not let that stop him from kissing Segundus' cheek, his jaw, his temple.

“I cannot... not here, sir,” Segundus pleaded as arousal and embarrassment fought for dominance inside him. “Anywhere, please, anywhere else.”

Childermass growled and shoved Segundus backwards. Rather than hitting the books as he had expected he kept falling until he landed on his backside on a small bed. He had time enough to note that the bedroom was large but rather drab, and that he had been rendered completely nude on top of the bed sheets, before Childermass bore down upon him, pressing him onto his back and running his hands down his flanks. They were, thank God, alone.

“Will this suit?”

Segundus nodded, language having quite deserted him. Childermass was still infuriatingly clothed, though there was some benefit to the rasp of wool against his naked skin. Childermass drew his fingertips across Segundus' nipples and he arched off the bed, crying out brokenly. Childermass sent his mouth to follow his fingers, sucking and drawing the flesh tight. Hot bolts of pleasure shot out all across Segundus' skin, racing downwards to end at his prick, and he sincerely hoped Childermass would not ever stop.

But they were not, after all, in Segundus' dream, and so stop Childermass did. He smirked at the helpless whine Segundus made at the loss, and moved to take hold of his thighs. He manipulated Segundus roughly, dragging him down and pushing him so that he was bent over himself at an alarming angle, with his rear off the bed and his legs thrown over Childermass' shoulders.

“John,” Segundus whispered, digging his fingers into the abundance of cloth at his shoulders, “Your clothes.”

Childermass glanced down at himself and laughed. “My apologies, sir,” he said, and in a blink he was quite as naked as Segundus. He continued to smile, perhaps amused by Segundus' startled expression, as he took hold of his stiff prick and pressed its tip against Segundus' arse. “With your permission,” he growled, his eyes dark and hungry.

There was nothing in the world that Segundus could imagine that would have made him refuse.

Childermass sank into him in one motion, bringing with him a wave of pleasure that crashed over Segundus and threatened to drown him. He clung to Childermass and gasped, for it was all he could manage to do with any grace. Childermass groaned his appreciation into Segundus' ear and drew back, only to return with the same force. Distantly, Segundus was aware that his passage was slick and welcoming, and was grateful indeed that they were dreaming. He did not like to think what this would cost him in the physical world.

He gave himself over to sensation, to the weight of Childermass above him and within him, to the rolling of hips and the wet clashing of lips and tongues. He pulled Childermass closer to him, and it _still_ was not close enough. He so very desperately wished that he was bodily in this room with Childermass, that they could fall asleep together and wake together and that he would never again have to wait on the newspapers to find out that something dreadful had happened. He felt the prickle of tears in his eyes.

Childermass looked down at him in confusion, reducing his movements to shallow little thrusts that made Segundus gasp and writhe. “What is it?” he said, soothing away Segundus' tears with his thumbs. “What's the matter?”

“You were shot,” Segundus whispered. He reached up a hand to touch the broad, unblemished skin of Childermass' chest. “I thought... I was so afraid...”

The confusion deepened on Childermass' face. “Shot?”

All around them was a sudden commotion, as if scores of people were shouting at the windows, though no single voices or words could be discerned. There was the stench of gunpowder on the air.

Segundus took Childermass' face in his hands to try and comfort him, but he had paled and there was a look of such fright in his eyes that Segundus found himself afraid, also. He felt something wet drip onto his skin and looked down to see a gaping, gory wound in Childermass' shoulder. It bled freely and soaked the bedsheets and Segundus both. Childermass clutched at it and cried out.

“John!” Segundus tried to hold him but as he did so Childermass was gone and he found himself immediately awake, sitting up in his bed reaching out into the grey-lit emptiness of his chamber. It was near dawn, and light enough to see by.

There was a long trail of smoke rising from his candle, which had burned down a little over halfway. He curled in on himself, bringing his knees up tight to his chest and letting his head fall down on them. He had rarely felt so bereft, so utterly alone, though he had lived all his life in much the same state. He realised that his face was wet and rubbed away the tears with the back of his hand, cursing himself for letting his emotions hurt Childermass. For if he had cried in the dream and cried in his bed, what pain had he put Childermass through now that he was awake? All for his own selfish wants.

All this, and he was still not convinced of Childermass' wellbeing. He did not know how much of what he had seen was ordinary for Childermass and how much was the result of his present condition. Overall it seemed as though he had run head-long into something he did not understand and quite probably made things worse.

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr Segundus receives an unexpected invitation.

He was woken the next day by an anxious knocking at the door. He groaned and tried to burrow deeper into his bed but the knocking did not cease. Angrily he threw back his covers and stamped to the door which, once opened, revealed Mr Honeyfoot looking up at him in relief.

“I am sorry to wake you,” he said, “But it is after eleven! Are you ill, sir?”

Segundus certainly felt ill. He was weak and shivery, his eyes felt like they had been stuffed with sand and his mouth was dust-dry. It was as if he had not slept in a month.

Mr Honeyfoot, being a most understanding and kind friend, saw him back to his bed and tucked him in, which treatment Segundus found both mildly embarrassing and an enormous relief. He had been making so many important and secret decisions of late that he had quite run himself down, and it was very lovely indeed to have someone tell him to stay in bed and wait on a tray of soup. It reminded him of his childhood, and those days when his mother would declare him too sick to see his tutor and let him pick any book he liked to take back to bed with him.

Sleep returned to him the moment he laid his head back down. He did not dream, but surfaced every now and then to hear Mr Honeyfoot talking in the hall or the neighing of the horses or the cawing of the ravens. He did not properly wake up until it was getting dark again, at which time Mr Honeyfoot brought him a tray of supper and read to him from the newspapers as he devoured a heaped plate of chicken stew.

“They say he was a Frenchman, who shot Mr Norrell's servant,” Mr Honeyfoot said, “A spy, or somesuch.”

“Do they say anything more about the servant?” Segundus aimed for nonchalance, but landed somewhere between strained and breathless. Fortunately Mr Honeyfoot did not notice anything amiss.

“No, nothing, though I suppose that must mean he is well.” Mr Honeyfoot turned the page and began to describe the present state of parliament.

There was a dull ache in Segundus' chest that he was sure had nothing to do with his present state of exhaustion. He felt rather useless, but had no notion of how to make himself useful. He should have felt happy – he had finally performed magic, after all! - but all he felt was dull and tired. When he was left alone again it was all he could do not to sigh in the manner of a slighted maid.

His own dreams returned to him that night in such a manic rush that he could hardly tell one image from the next. He woke up near dawn gasping for air and pressing himself down into the mattress. He was achingly hard and close, very close to orgasm. Oh! How he wished for Childermass then, for his low voice and his rough hands. He thrust against the sheet and moaned softly as lights danced behind his eyelids. He wanted Childermass here with him, where he could watch the rise and fall of his breaths and feel the warmth of his skin. He wanted him naked as he had been in their shared dream, so that he might kiss every exposed inch of him at his leisure.

As he felt the hot coil of pleasure build to a peak inside him he dragged back the memory of Childermass above him, the press of his prick and the burning edge to his voice as he said, “ _With your permission_ ,” and Segundus bucked his hips as he spilled onto the bedsheets.

When the world righted itself around him he felt somehow restored, as if a question he had never been able to voice had been answered.

Mr Honeyfoot was delighted to see him up and about again. Feeling the prickle of shame for missing several days of work, Segundus dedicated the morning to unpacking a crate of books donated by a Newcastle magician who had tired of the barrage of threatening letters from London and turned his wealth and attentions to the collecting of butterflies.

Segundus emerged from the library some hours later, drawn by the smell of freshly baked bread, and joined Mr Honeyfoot for luncheon beside the fire. There was a neat pile of letters on the arm of his chair, which he set to opening between mouthfuls of warm buttered toast. There were several long letters from his friends in London, all a-clamouring about the French spies out for Mr Norrell and speculating on the dark magic Mr Strange had performed in the closing days of the war. He had a short paragraph from his father thanking him for his recently received birthday gift and an unfocused missive from his second brother mainly concerned with the unceasing wailing of his infant son.

The last letter on the pile was written in a hand so familiar that it caused his stomach to lurch in anticipation. He opened the letter carefully, hiding the trembling of his fingers by spreading the letter flat on the arm of the chair.

“I have been invited to London,” he said aloud, once he had read it through four times.

“Oh! I am pleased for you,” Mr Honeyfoot said. “You are deserving of a rest, Mr Segundus.”

“It is... it is Mr Norrell who invites me,” he replied, and could not meet Mr Honeyfoot's eye. “He wishes me to attend a brief audience.”

“On what subject?”

“He does not say. Only that it will be to our benefit.”

Mr Honeyfoot thought this over for a minute. “I suppose you must go. We will look guiltier if we try to avoid it.”

Segundus agreed, and made the arrangements to travel to the capital.

By the time the coach arrived at its destination he had worked himself into a tight ball of anxiety. He had endlessly speculated on what Norrell might say, and what he might say in return. He had tried to think of cutting things, of brave things and of noble things, but the certain knowledge that he would likely be able to say none of them when faced with Norrell's crushing disdain had gnawed at him the entire way. He had also spent a not insignificant number of miles speculating on Childermass' present condition. He was well enough to work, or at least to write imperious letters for his master, but what did that mean? Was he up and about or had Norrell brought him a writing desk to his sick bed? He had decided that if the latter were the case he would summon up some very strong words _indeed_ and direct them all at Mr Norrell without an ounce of fear.

The lodgings he found were humble but well-appointed. There was just enough space in his room for him to pace and fret upon the coming confrontation. He was practising his defence under his breath when a brisk knock at the door disturbed him.

“Just a moment,” he sighed, and opened it. In the hall stood John Childermass.

All the air seemed to leave Segundus without his ever breathing out. Childermass was smiling, or at least hinting at a smile with his eyes, and with the exception of the depth of tiredness under his eyes he looked just the same as he had the last time they met. He did not hesitate: he took Childermass by his lapels and pulled him into the chamber, kicking the door closed behind them.

“Sir -” Childermass began, but Segundus cut him off with a kiss. He gripped the coat tighter and pushed himself on to his toes, the better to bite and lick at Childermass' lips. There was no finesse in it, and little art, but it was the purest expression of his present state of mind that he could make. Childermass groaned into it, hands bunching the back of his waistcoat, but then all too soon pushed him away and said, “Not here. We are expected.”

Segundus could not deny the little burst of petulant disappointment at those words. On seeing Childermass he had begun to hope that there was no meeting, that this was all contrivance and he could lay Childermass in his bed and seek out assurances of his health and liveliness for a full day and night.

Stepping back, Childermass pulled Segundus' jacket down and straightened the knot in his cravat. When he was satisfied with his appearance he said, “I am going to ask you to trust me, John,” and it was lucky that he did, as Childermass began to lay out the most unlikely and audacious scheme that had ever been suggested within Segundus' hearing.

* * *

Segundus felt very out of place in Sir Walter Pole's drawing room. He was overwhelmingly aware of the quality of the furnishings and the art on the walls, not to mention the gentleman himself, who stood at the fireplace in his excellent clothes. The lines of his body were effortless, a picture of grace and breeding. By contrast, Segundus felt brittle and hunched and had realised when he sat down that the cuff of his best jacket had frayed.

The other gentlemen only made him feel worse, both Mr Lascelles and Mr Drawlight being done up in bright colours and opulent fabrics. When he had spilled cake crumbs down his front they had smirked a little at each other, and Segundus had been forcibly reminded of his schooldays and how much he had loathed them. His only source of comfort was Childermass, who was as slouched and unkempt in the company of members of parliament as he was in the library at Hurtfew.

“We have tried a great many remedies,” Sir Walter was saying, leaning his forearm on the mantle and gazing into the fire. “None made any difference.”

Segundus fiddled with his teacup. Quite apart from his personal failings there was something not quite right about the house on Harley Street that made him feel disquieted. There was a thick smell of earth that he could attribute to nothing at all and he kept glimpsing things out of the corner of his eye that would not be there when he turned fully. Mostly he saw vines, thick green tendrils growing up the walls and choking the woodwork, though he had also seen the quick fluttering of what might have been a bird and had the sensation of crunching leaves underfoot when he was shown into the room. It was very strange, but none of the other men in the room remarked upon it, so Segundus remained quiet.

“This recent turn of events has been most troubling,” Sir Walter continued, with a glance at Childermass, “And I fear I have reached my limit. Much though it pains me to admit it, sir, I can no longer take care of my wife.”

“I believe she will do very well with us, sir,” Segundus said. “We will provide excellent care.”

He did not yet know how, precisely, they would accomplish this, but he had already sworn to himself that he would do whatever he could to see the lady right. That Childermass bore her no ill-will for shooting him spoke volumes of his concern for her, and though he had cried out in horror at his recounting of the event he had soon enough come round to Childermass' way of thinking. There was something not at all right about the situation, and it would be best for everyone to get her as far away as possible from Mr Norrell, her chief source of aggravation.

Sir Walter turned away from the fire and rubbed a hand over his face. “This is what I chiefly desire: that she be well, cared for and safe.”

“And that others be safe from her, also,” interjected Lascelles, raising an imperious finger.

“Of course,” said Segundus, who had to put his teacup down lest it rattle on the saucer.

“She is very young,” Sir Walter said, his voice thick with emotion. “I do not... I do not wish her to be made a spectacle of, Mr Segundus.”

“Oh! Of course not,” Segundus said, discomfited immensely by the thought of anyone coming to gawk at a sick person. His father had been very clear on the matter, and it was a sentiment he had instilled into all his sons: madness was a private matter, and not for display. He thought for a moment to say as much to Sir Walter, but he felt too keenly the interest of Lascelles and Drawlight, so kept his statements general. That had a soothing effect on Sir Walter, who at last sipped his tea and seemed to relax.

As the interview continued, Segundus risked the odd glance at Childermass. At first he caught encouraging half-nods and the odd flash of a smile, but as the afternoon wore on Childermass' eyes began to take on a glassy sheen and he leaned more heavily on the wall.

By the time Segundus was shaking Sir Walter's hand (“I cannot thank you enough, sir, for all you have promised.”) his concern for the Yorkshireman had risen enough that he considered asking Sir Walter to call for a doctor, but he caught Childermass' eye and saw a subtle shake of his head that told him not to be so foolish.

Childermass held the carriage door open, and Lascelles and Drawlight stepped in first. He continued to hold the door for Segundus, who clambered up and took the seat opposite Lascelles. He was relieved when Childermass got in next to him; he was not sure he would have survived a journey alone with the two gentlemen.

“I don't suppose I should be surprised that Childermass is acquainted with madhouse keepers,” Lascelles drawled once the carriage was under way. “But do enlighten me: how is it that you came to know him?”

“I worked for his father,” Childermass said, barely working to hide his snarl. “Many years ago.”

Lascelles and Drawlight exchanged looks.

“I understand you are friends of Mr Norrell's?” Segundus addressed the question to Drawlight, who seemed to be the more distractable of the two. Segundus was an appalling liar and would go pink to the tips of his ears if called upon to embellish Childermass' story.

Drawlight seized upon the question and regaled Segundus with tales of Mr Norrell's exploits. Segundus listened only partially. Lascelles watched him all the while with a hungry sort of gaze, and at once Segundus realised that he was sharing a carriage with a sheep and a tiger, and very nearly burst out laughing.

“Did your father fire him?” Lascelles eyes had narrowed and he tipped his head back a little, the better to pin Segundus with his gaze. “For his insolence? Or perhaps he was a thief.”

Segundus fixed his own eyes on the elaborate embroidery of Lascelles' waistcoat. “Oh, of course not,” he said.

“Mr Norrell made me a better offer,” Childermass said with a soft laugh.

“I am sure the gentleman is perfectly capable of answering for himself.”

When he was at school there was a boy in his form called Ashdown who had made it his particular business to torment Segundus at every opportunity. They were punishments for imagined slights: if Segundus came top in Latin transcription then he would find all his quills snapped and the cork left out of his ink bottle overnight. If Segundus received a letter from his father it would be snatched from him and read aloud for the amusement of the other boys, and if he told some story to make the others laugh Ashdown would find some way to twist his words and make Segundus the object of ridicule. Ashdown never beat him but he hurt the young Segundus as deeply as if he had laid him out cold every day. It was all designed to keep him in his place, he had realise when he was older. He was poor, by their standards, and wore his older brothers' hand-me-downs and stammered when called upon by the masters, and it simply would not do for him to be better in any way than a higher standard of gentleman, like Ashdown.

He had hated and feared Ashdown with all the extremity of youth, but in the presence of Lascelles he could only conclude that, in the art of bullying, Ashdown had been a quite appalling amateur.

At last the carriage stopped, and Childermass gritted his teeth and stood to open the door. He held it barely wide enough for the two gentlemen to pass through, and Lascelles pushed it back on him with a savage smile.

“Mr Norrell will see you tomorrow morning,” Childermass said in a bored tone. “Until then, sirs.”

Childermass clambered back into the cab and closed the door with a sharp snap. He sat down heavily, sprawling in his seat and closing his eyes. He looked drained, and all Segundus wanted was to gather him in his arms and soothe him.

“It was well done, sir,” Childermass said. “Very well done.”

His thigh was touching Segundus', though it was likely not a deliberate action. “I am afraid I was not at all convincing.”

Childermass opened his eyes just enough that Segundus could see their dark shine. “I could not have asked for better, Mr Segundus.” As he spoke he pressed his leg a little more firmly against Segundus' and smiled. He knocked on the side of the carriage and it began to move again.

“I do not much like Mr Lascelles,” Segundus said, shuddering at the memory of him. “I can see why you dream him as a tiger.”

At that, Childermass straightened abruptly, pulling his leg away and looking down on Segundus with shock. “You … that was you?”

Segundus felt a hot stab of shame go through him. “I could think of no other way!”

Childermass appeared to consider this for a moment, his face a mask of concentration, and Segundus could only twist his hands together and hope for the best. “It is not very gentlemanly,” he said at length, “To break into another man's dreams.”

“You were shot!” cried Segundus. “How else was I to convince myself you were not... not _dead_ , sir?”

“You were worried?”

“ _Worried_ does not begin to describe it.” Segundus said. “I was sick, sir, with thinking you were lost. Or that you were hurt and I was entirely too far away to do anything about it.”

Childermass' eyebrows ventured high on his forehead. “What would you have done?” He spoke as if it did not occur to him that anyone would think to do anything and was honestly curious to hear the answer. It made Segundus' chest feel tight and he reached out to take Childermass's hand in his.

“This,” he said softly.

Childermass looked down at where their hands joined.

“I could not stand it, not knowing,” Segundus continued. “And now I see you are working when you should plainly still be in bed. You have half collapsed! If I had been here, John, I would not have permitted this.”

“I am not whole unless I can work,” Childermass said quietly. “I would not have stayed in bed a day longer.”

Segundus brought their joined hands up and pressed a kiss to Childermass' knuckles. “Then I would have tied you to it,” he said, and fixed his mouth again to Childermass' hand.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, and then Childermass wrenched his hand free to hurriedly pull down the blinds on his side of the cab. Segundus did likewise, as bolts of nerves and excitement ran through him.

For the span of a few heartbeats they looked at one another, uncertainty lingering between them, then Childermass growled and pulled Segundus close, shoving his right hand into Segundus' hair and kissing him. It was full of demand and assertion, and Segundus could have fainted dead away with the relief of it. He crawled over Childermass to improve the angle, ran his thumbs over the rough stubble of his cheeks and returned to the business of kissing. He basked in the push and pull of tongues and lips for a few blissful moments, then broke to trail kisses down Childermass' jaw to his throat as he carefully, gently stroked the place on his shoulder where he had been shot, laying his hand on the wool of his overcoat as if in benediction.

Childermass let out a shaky breath, then covered Segundus's hand with his own. “I am not dead,” he whispered into Segundus ear. “I am not.”

Segundus claimed his mouth in a kiss meant to convey the depth of his feeling on the subject. Childermass groaned under him and he felt an enormous rush of power. He did not know how long the journey back to his lodgings would be, but he thought it might very well be long enough. He slid down onto his knees on the cab floor, slotting himself neatly between Childermass' legs. Childermass gave another groan and Segundus smiled at him as he slid his hands up his thighs, pressing his fingertips into the thick muscle he found there.

“I have missed you,” Childermass said, though it was scarcely louder than a breath.

Opening Childermass' breeches was a simple task, but Segundus' hands trembled as he went about it. The hands in his hair were similarly afflicted, creating a loop of nervous tension that threatened to ensnare them both. He stroked the outline of Childermass' prick through the fabric of his trousers, earning himself another guttural noise from above, before he was finally able to marshal his fingers and get the buttons undone. How comforting it was to touch real flesh, to feel his warmth and smell his scent. Segundus revelled in it, pressed his nose to the base of his cockstand and breathed in deeply. Childermass jerked in surprise and gripped his hair tight enough to hurt, then immediately slackened his grip again.

Curious, Segundus licked a broad stripe up Childermass' prick and the grip returned, lingering for a few seconds more before Childermass remembered himself and let go again. Segundus repeated the action and this time Childermass sighed and settled a little on the seat, plainly enjoying it, but did not clench his hand. This would not do! Segundus took the head into his mouth and lathed his tongue around it, and that brought Childermass' hand into a fist and dragged a deep grunt out of him.

Pulling away, Segundus said, “You must be quiet, John,” and then slipped Childermas inside his mouth as far as he could manage. It was easier this time, for he was a little more prepared and had the benefit of knowing how it would feel for Childermass if he were to bob his head _thus_ or suckle _there_ and it made all the difference. His blood thrummed with arousal and he was himself hard in his breeches, but he fixed himself wholeheartedly to Childermass' pleasure:

He was breathing heavily, muffling his panting in the palm of his left hand, and his eyes were closed tight. There was a burst of bitter fluid across Segundus' tongue, a prelude to his completion, and Segundus hummed, setting off tremors in Childermass' thighs. When Segundus sank and rose again slowly he let out a long, low noise that delighted Segundus, and when he added his hand to that part of him he could not fit in his mouth it rose to a keening that set Segundus' skin aflame.

“John,” Childermass said around his hand, and then, “ _John!_ ” with such urgency that Segundus looked up at him, concerned, only to be lost within the black depths of his eyes in the moment before they rolled back in his head and let out a great, broken sound. He clamped both hands to Segundus' head, an entirely unnecessary measure to hold him in place, as his hips came up from the seat and his whole body went taught. He spent himself spectacularly. Segundus swallowed him hungrily and moaned his appreciation.

“John,” said Childermass, breathless and hoarse.

Segundus rose up and kissed him, slowly and deeply. The coach rocked them gently back and forth. Although he was still aroused he felt oddly peaceful, as if nothing at all mattered save for them.

Except something did matter. He had let it slip his mind, preoccupied as he was with Childermass, but now the thought came back to him like a remembered tune and he slipped away from the kiss to ask, “What is the magic at Harley Street?”

Childermass blinked. “Harley Street?”

“I imagine it is not the house that is enchanted,” Segundus said, stroking his fingers along Childermass' jaw, “It feels too raw for that, too natural.”

“I do not know,” Childermass sighed. He bent his head to rest their foreheads together. “But that is why it must be you.”

“You are bold, sir,” Segundus said, toying with a strand of Childermass' hair, “To be shot, and then to write only to ask me for a favour. I should be very put out indeed.”

“What do you want in return?” There was humour in his tone, but seriousness in his eyes.

Segundus thought for a moment, and quickly lit upon an idea that made his prick throb and brought a wicked smile out on his face. “A day,” he said. “A whole day, and the night as well. And a bed, there must be a bed for us to share. Grant me that, and I will consider us even in this matter.”

“You are a skilled negotiator, John,” Childermass said, laughing quietly into his mouth, “I accept your terms.” He slid his hands down to Segundus's buttocks, gripped them tightly and added, “For the present, however...”

They leaned together but before they could begin another heady kiss the carriage jolted and came to a stop. A cold wash of fear went across Segundus and he saw the same in Childermass, who cursed expressively and set about fixing his breeches before Segundus had even climbed off him. It only took a few moments to rid the carriage of any trace of their illicit activity, though the cab had a certain smell that would require some airing. Childermass reached out to comb Segundus' hair with his hand, righting him with a tenderness that set Segundus' heart fluttering.

“I do not go back on my word,” he promised, and kissed him, chaste and warm, before popping his hat on his head and opening the coach door. He stepped down into the street and held it open for Segundus.

It did not sit right. He did not like having their difference in situation made plain to him. He had not liked sitting while Childermass stood, he had not liked that Childermass must be largely civil whilst Lascelles could sneer and insinuate and be as rude as he pleased, and he certainly did not like that they must maintain a charade of servant-and-gentleman for the benefit of the rest of the world. It was this last that rankled greatest.

Childermass touched the brim of his hat and smirked, as if he too had thought on their differences and found it highly amusing. A little of the unhappiness in Segundus broke away. He stepped down from the carriage on shaky legs, grateful at least that the terror of the sudden end to their journey had doused his erection.

“See that you do not wear yourself out,” Segundus said, giving a little salute of his own.

Childermass rolled his eyes. “Good evening, sir,” he said, with a hint of fondness that warmed Segundus to the core.

Back in his lodging-room he felt dreadfully alone. It would have been ludicrous to suggest Childermas come with him, of course. The house was packed with lodgers, not to mention the landlady, and what would Childermass have told Mr Norrell's coachman? Reasonable decisions aside, he could not help but think that his evening would have had a better chance at being _good_ if he had not been obliged to spend it in his own company.

But it did not do to dwell! Nothing could be gained from melancholy, and there was work to be done. He sat down at the rickety table that served as a writing desk and dipped his pen. He must think clearly and logically, for the comfort of an afflicted lady depended on him. With a determined nod he set to writing a list of all that would be required to transform Starecross into a madhouse.

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Episode 4.

The butcher fixed him with an incredulous look. Segundus shuffled his feet on the tile floor.

“A coat?” the butcher asked in a tone that suggested he had never heard anything more ridiculous. Segundus was, of course, inclined to agree with him, but since he had started down this path he could scarcely turn back at the first sign of difficulty.

“If you please, sir,” said Segundus, who tended to retreat to formalities when anxious. “That is, only if you have one to spare, or that you do not like as much as the others.”

“How many coats do you suppose I have, sir?”

Segundus considered this for a moment. “One to wear and one to wash?” he hazarded.

The butcher, who was named Kershaw and had the sort of face that was chipped out of the very rock of Yorkshire, lifted his abundant eyebrows. Segundus laughed apologetically and offered the man a guinea, which, it transpired, was sufficient to part man from coat. He even threw in an apron, saying that it had belonged to his son who had given up butchery after one week and run away to join the Johannites on the banks of the Tyne. The apron caused Kershaw no small amount of grief when he saw it hanging on its hook, and was glad to be rid of it.

He took his prizes and gave the butcher a grateful bow before quitting the shop and hurrying through York to the tearoom where he was due to meet his friend. Mr Honeyfoot was already ensconced at a table, a plate of buttered crumpets and a pot of tea waiting to be enjoyed. They shared their successes: Honeyfoot had procured several good locks and had the promise of a wheelchair from a medical acquaintance. Segundus had the coat, the apron and had ordered a good many cushions and soft blankets, as the décor at Starecross was hardly suitable for a lady in as delicate a condition as Lady Pole.

“I do not know how we will do it,” Mr Honeyfoot said, sipping his tea. “It is an unlikely scheme indeed.”

“Mr Childermass has already navigated the most difficult waters,” said Segundus. “And Sir Walter is convinced.”

Mr Honeyfoot gave him a look of mild concern. “You put a lot of faith in Mr Childermass, when this plan of his only furthers Mr Norrell's interests.”

Segundus made a non-committal noise as he bit into his crumpet.

“I mean to say, you have quite changed your opinion of him. We are sure he can be trusted?”

It took some effort to swallow his mouthful. “I believe so, yes,” he said, “I saw a genuine concern for the lady's wellbeing, and I was convinced by him.”

“Well, I shall follow your good judgement.” Mr Honeyfoot smiled, and turned his full attention to his plate.

Segundus licked a spot of butter off his finger and hoped that his judgement, good or ill, was not entirely clouded.

* * *

Three things struck Segundus about Lady Pole the moment she stepped out of her coach. The first was that she was much younger than he had supposed, just barely a woman, and his heart clenched in sympathy for all she had endured. The second was that she looked as though she had been put through the very worst of life's trials without a moment's pause, and was in dire need of respite and kindness. The third, and most disturbing, was that there was a rose at her mouth.

It was an odd thing indeed, like nothing he had ever seen before, and was both there and not-there in a way that he would never have been able to define in spoken language. It gave him quite a turn to see it, and when he took her arm to guide her inside he felt a frisson from her touch which was like a silent burst of lightning or the moment of stillness before a downpour.

Stranger still was that the same thing was evident upon her servant, the man called Stephen Black. Segundus would have liked to let out some cry or perhaps retreat to his room to cradle his head, which had begun to ache, but there could be none of that! He had to perform this act and by its performance help this young lady in need.

There was a pall of sadness around her, a resignation to her present circumstances that tugged at Segundus' heart. She went quietly into the wheelchair and did not struggle as they restrained her, nor barely flinched when Mr Honeyfoot made reference to her resurrection or Segundus drove the wheelchair into the wall in a most ungracious manner. She only showed her steel when she realised she was in the presence of magicians and began a screaming and shouting that did not end for many hours.

“Oh, my heaven,” Mr Honeyfoot whispered to Segundus when the two briefly retreated to the kitchen to prepare the lady her supper. “I fear we may be in over our heads, John.”

Segundus could barely respond. The ache in his head had settled into a constant drone of pain, not at all helped by Lady Pole's continued bursts of outrage and the need to remember at least some of their story. “We must persevere,” he managed to croak.

The letter from Sir Walter had given an overview of the lady's general habits, her particular preferences and chiefest dislikes, and so the two newly appointed madhouse keepers made her a bowl of vegetable soup (third on the list of favourites) and sat with her while she prodded it with a spoon.

“I do not know what you intend to gain from me.” She spoke in a voice filled with bitterness and with her gaze fixed upon the patterns she drew in the surface of the soup. “I am no longer a thing of value.”

“My lady!” Segundus protested, but she silenced him with a look that could strip the bark from trees.

“Do not think me ignorant, or naïve,” she said. “I have seen the world in its most naked, shameful state, and I will no longer be complicit in it.”

“Please, Lady Pole,” said Stephen, who kept a quiet watch by the door. “You must not exert yourself so.”

A shadow of the most absolute hatred crossed her face and she upended the bowl of soup into Segundus' lap. He yelped and sprung up from his seat, more in surprise than in pain, and from there the evening continued downhill. Lady Pole resisted sleep with all her strength, forcing Mr Honeyfoot to fetch the little bottle of laudanum Sir Walter had supplied for this purpose. She screamed and kicked and it took the three of them to send her into that most dreadful of induced sleeps. The whole affair left Segundus with bile rising in his throat and he hurriedly excused himself on the pretence of cleaning his breeches.

Safe in the confines of his own chamber he dragged off his clothes. He felt all over raw and itchy, as if he had been set upon by a furious swarm of insects. Naked, he dropped on to his bed and curled up on his side like a frightened child.

He told the empty room that which he should have told Childermass: “I am not the man for this!”

Not for the first time he was struck by how much he would like to have Childermass here with him. It would be so much easier to sort this whole thing out, and he was sure Childermass would understand about the rose without his having to fumble for too many words; he might even know what it meant, if he had heard something like it from Norrell. Perhaps Childermass would be happy to rub Segundus' temples, easing the pain there with firm touches. He could not see Childermass refusing, though he may roll his eyes at Segundus' frailty.

Now that he had let himself begin, he could not stop the tide of imagination. It would be a very fine thing, he decided, to have Childermass to wrap himself around at night. His fingers twitched to entwine with his and his back felt cold where Childermass should be tucked against it. He would like it if Childermass were close enough that he did not have to raise his voice above a whisper to tell him how afraid he was that he would fail Lady Pole.

He wondered if Childermass would despair of him or seek to reassure him. He would very much like some measure of reassurance: the soothing press of hands on his back, the low rumble of words in his ear, the soft touch of lips on his neck; he craved all of it. Turning onto his back he let one hand fall out next to him, touching the place on the bed where Childermass should be.

Segundus had felt loneliness before, and it had in fact been something of a constant in his younger years, but never this very specific _longing._ He had never, of course, been in love before now.

It should not have been so very subtle a realisation, but with his nerves scraped raw and his skin sensitised to even the merest press of cloth it came to him with a startling level of simplicity and an immediate sense of peace. He loved Childermass, and that was that. He laughed, then clapped his hand over his mouth to smother the noise lest he disturb anyone. He crawled up the bed and laid his head on the pillow, looking up at the ceiling with a smile on his face, for it was not the handsomely carved wood that he saw, but a vision of dark eyes and a crooked smile.

* * *

Daylight streamed in through the window and he shivered as he woke – he had slept the whole night on top of his bedsheets and completely nude. A small burst of embarrassment went through him, but it was quickly dismissed. He felt renewed. It was only as he went to his washstand that he realised something was amiss: he had slept the night through. He had anticipated that the Lady would scream and wail in her sleep, that she would pass the night in the kind of anguish he had always associated with madness, and that such extremity of feeling would break through the (admittedly small) dose of laudanum . He was a light enough sleeper that it should have disturbed him.

He washed and dressed quickly and hurried through the house to Lady Pole's room. He found her inside much as she had been left the night before. No, he thought a moment later, she was quite _exactly_ as they left her. She had not moved one inch in her sleep.

“Lady Pole!” he exclaimed as he rushed to her side. He took one of her hands in both of his and was immensely relieved to feel the warmth of living flesh. It was with a small bolt of surprise that he realised that her hand was missing the majority of its little finger.

At that moment she stirred and opened her eyes. She was awake as suddenly and completely as if she had never slept.

“Oh,” she said as she pulled her hand out of his grasp, “You.”

The Lady took a little breakfast, by way of a spoonful of porridge and an abundance of tea (into which Mr Honeyfoot spooned four lumps of sugar before she was satisfied by it) and remained sullen throughout. The weight of her distrust was heavy in the room, and Mr Segundus' headache returned little by little as he sat in her presence.

What dread thing had been done to her, he wondered, that rendered even the air around her noxious? If her hatred of magicians did not speak loudly enough, her desire to kill Norrell made the clearest statement Segundus could imagine. She had been used most terribly, and now that she was inconvenient, found herself abandoned. He swore then that he would do whatever it took to win her trust and make her life as comfortable as he could manage.

It was just the kind of luck one usually encountered in faerie tales that his first opportunity to prove himself in this regard came at the expense of a visit from Childermass. Indeed, his heart might have leapt to see him in the lane had it not already been hammering inside his chest as a result of the Lady's howled reaction to him. He feared for both their safeties at the same time, and for himself having to tread the line between them.

“What are you doing here, sir?” Segundus cried as he raced down the path to confront him. He felt as though he were being carried along on a wave of Lady Pole's anguish and had no desire to prolong it. “I thought you were ill!”

He said it like an accusation, painfully aware as he was of his audience. What he meant was some combination of concern and outrage, that Childermass should have ridden all this way when he was surely still suffering. Segundus had wanted nothing more than to see him, but not like this. There was a certain pallor under the dirt on his face that made Segundus yearn to wash it away from him, to harry him into a bed and feed him soup, but none of that was possible.

“I am better now,” he growled, with a look in his eye of such single-mindedness that it should have made Segundus quake in his boots. “And you have Lady Pole. Take me to her.”

It simply could not be done! The Lady had been wronged so greatly by so many people, and Segundus would not add his name to that list. She had asked only one thing of him and he intended to be a man of honour, and he made it very plain that Childermass was not to enter the house.

There was fire in Childermass, a desire to have his way and to brush aside anything in his path, but Segundus felt a similar burning. In that moment he possessed the power to hurt either Childermass or Lady Pole, and though he was loathe to do either any harm he thought Childermass was more likely to survive being rebuffed than Lady Pole would another violation of her trust.

Childermass' eyes narrowed as Segundus stood his ground, he sighed and demanded, and Segundus found himself quite affronted that he had obviously been expected to capitulate in a heartbeat. Well indeed! He found an anger rising up in him, that Childermass should think so little of him.

“You may have your ways of carrying on,” he said, drawing up all his old resentment of Norrell and his frustration at the present situation. “You may shut down societies, steal people's books, rob them of their livelihoods, but I will not,” and here he pulled himself up to his full height, “Have you distressing a lady!”

Childermass looked exceedingly confused by his staunch position, and again Segundus wondered how Childermass saw him, if he thought he would not defend Lady Pole once she was under his protection. At the same time, his heart ached.

It took Mr Honeyfoot and the blunderbuss to finally turn Childermass away, leaving them with only his curious warning about Lady Pole. Segundus felt quite shaken when he was gone, and was glad of Mr Honeyfoot's reassuring presence at his side.

“He is quite the most disreputable individual I have ever known,” said Mr Honeyfoot with a slight shudder. “To come here and make such demands of a sick person! Most uncouth.” He laid a hand on Segundus' arm as they went back towards Lady Pole's room. “I must commend you, Mr Segundus, for that marvellous display.”

Segundus made a soft noise of dissent, but Mr Honeyfoot swept it away with a gesture.

“No, it was very well done, sir. The welfare of the Lady is paramount, and you expressed it well! We shall not let that scoundrel run roughshod over _us_ , now, shall we?”

Segundus felt himself blushing and attributed it equally to the praise of his character and the certain knowledge that he was in no small way deceiving his dear friend. But he was right: the welfare of Lady Pole came first, and it was to that business that he must turn his full attention.

With Childermass gone Lady Pole seemed to relax, and even took a few spoonfuls of the blancmange that Sir Walter had advised them to serve if she seemed delicate. Her mother made it for her previously, he wrote, and it brought to her memories of childhood. She began to look at Segundus not with hatred but with a cold sort of indifference, which was an immense improvement. As her mood lightened so did the pressure of magic around her, and his head was quite clear again by the late afternoon. He remarked on this to Mr Honeyfoot over supper, but it only produced a blank gaze, as if his friend had no notion of these sensations. Segundus waved it off, not wanting to appear mad himself, and withdrew.

Sleep did not come easily. He could not stop his mind from endlessly going over the events of the day, with particular attention paid to those moments when he had shouted at Childermass, whom he had realised he loved only the night before. It was too much, too much for his head and his heart and everything in between. By the time he gave up on sleep it was quite late, and all the rest of the house was surely dreaming. Pulling on his robe (a gaudy thing his third brother had gifted him ten years earlier) he slipped through the dark house to the kitchen, wondering if there might not be some morsel to settle him to sleep.

He knew there was something wrong the moment he stepped into the kitchen, and on instinct he closed the door firmly behind him. There was a faint breeze that was not usual, and the distinct sensation that someone had just drawn a breath.

“Hullo?” he cast his voice into the gloom and followed it with his candlestick, setting it down on a counter top where it cast not nearly enough light. Pearly moonlight was more illuminating, and spilled in abundantly through the window – which had been, he now noticed, smashed open.

“Do not be alarmed, sir, I beg of you.”

Segundus wheeled around to see the wholly unexpected figure of Childermass blocking the kitchen door and holding up a hand as if to quiet a nervous horse. Segundus could not help but be alarmed, but he had the presence of mind to clap his hands to his mouth and smother any sort of noise that might have tried to escape him.

“It is all right, Mr Segundus!” Childermass said with an edge of desperation in his voice. “Please, do not shout!”

Segundus pulled his hands away to hiss, “No it is not all right! What in God's name are you doing here?”

“I thought -”

“You broke our window, sir! And of course I will not shout, unless you give me reason!”

Childermass looked wild. He was just as dirty as he had been that afternoon but in the deep shadows of the kitchen he looked positively otherworldly, like an etching of some woodland demon who would lure innocents off the path and bring them to ruin. Segundus' breath hitched a little at the sight of him and he had to forcibly remind himself that he was angry.

“I am very sorry, sir,” Childermass said.

“I told you that I will not permit you near her!” Segundus said, stepping closer to Childermass to drive the point home. “Lady Pole is simply not to be disturbed.”

Childermass slumped back against the door a little and a jagged smile broke out on his face. “No, indeed. I took you at your word on that. I did not come to see the lady.”

Segundus blinked in surprise as his stomach dropped a notch, as if he had just missed a step on the stairs.

“I had intended...” he broke off to wet his lips with a flash of his tongue.

Segundus' could feel his heartbeat in his throat and took another step closer to Childermass, who shifted his weight from foot to foot. It was almost as if he were shy, which Segundus dismissed as a ridiculous notion.

“I wanted to see you,” Childermass finished with a shrug, as if were a passing fancy and not the kind of desire that had driven him to break a window and scare a man in his dressing gown half to death.

“Oh?” said Segundus. “But is that not exactly what you should say, seeing as I am the one who has discovered you about your wicked deeds?”

Childermas looked briefly stricken before his predatory smile reasserted itself. “I think you know I am a man of my word. If I wanted to see the lady I would have broken into her room directly. Since your room is upstairs and inaccessible by any normal means I chose the kitchen, as there is no-one sleeping close by.” He took a step himself, then, bringing himself close enough that Segundus could smell the rain and earth and sweat on him. “I wanted to surprise you in your bed.”

A long shudder went down Segundus' spine, a wave of arousal that swept away his anger and ended in the anticipatory stiffening of his member. He could not have torn his eyes away from Childermass if he had wanted to.

“I had thought I might commit any number of wicked deeds, as you say,” Childermass said, his voice so low as to be felt rather than heard, “But none of them against Lady Pole.”

Unable to bear it for a second longer Segundus rocked up on his toes and kissed him. He wound his arms around him, embracing him and digging his nails into the back of his coat. “Please,” he said against Childermass' lips, “ _Please._ ”

Childermass acquiesced with a growl and with the clench of his hands in Segundus' hair, turning his head to better the angle and kiss back with force. They were hot, biting kisses, then quick and shallow and telling all manner of truths about the pain of separation. Segundus could not stand the thick fabrics between them so he moved to drag Childermass' coat from him, pulling him backwards to the kitchen table. Childermass shed his jacket, too, then sunk to his knees. Segundus gasped but Childermass only grinned wickedly and took off his shoes before rising slowly until they could kiss again. There was something oddly vulnerable about that, Segundus thought, very deliberate, but the insistent press of tongue over his lips drove all sensible thought out of his head.

Childermass ran his hands down Segundus' sides until he found the knot of his robe. “This is a very pretty thing,” he purred into Segundus' ear. “I would see you in such things every day.”

Segundus let out a small whimper as Childermass pulled the knot apart and slipped his hands under the heavy fabric of the robe. “I do not own anything else like it,” he said, apologetic and breathless as Childermass pressed his palm to the swell of arousal evident through his nightshirt.

“That is a shame,” Childermass said, squeezing a little and making Segundus thrust up against his hand, seeking all the contact he could. “You shall simply have to be as you are.”

Between them they made short work of Childermass' waistcoat. Segundus pulled at his shirt and dragged it off over his head, finding that he was very keen to examine the damage done to him. He sucked in a breath at the sight of it – a knot of red, inflamed flesh that rose up in torment from the pale skin around it. Segundus laid a hand on Childermass' shoulder so that his thumb barely traced the roughened edge of it.

“It is all right, now,” Childermass said, his voice hitching a little.

“Does it pain you?”

Childermass shrugged. “No more than I would expect.”

“Oh, you are perfectly infuriating!” Segundus leaned in and kissed the skin above the injury, then again below it. He slid his hands across Childermass' chest. When his finger brushed a nipple Childermass gasped and surged forwards into the touch. He trailed his fingers around, drawing out more shudders and broken little noises, chasing them with kisses and more touch. A spark of inspiration drove him to pinch both nipples and Childermass had to bury his face in the crook of Segundus' neck to muffle his shout.

“Stop!” he gasped as Segundus prepared to do it a second time, “I beg of you, stop.”

Segundus pulled his hands away and gripped the edge of the table behind him, saying, “I am sorry, forgive me, I did not mean -”

Childermass laughed a little, though his breathing was still laboured enough to turn it into a shaky, uncertain sort of noise. He kissed Segundus' neck. “I only meant that you will bring me off too soon, if you keep on in that way.”

“Oh,” said Segundus, which was a poor way to express the flush of pride and heated want that surged up inside him, but was the only word he could presently think of.

Childermass took advantage of his moment of shock and urged him back further, lifting him and sitting him on the edge of the kitchen table. He lifted Segundus' nightshirt just enough to be able to lay hands on his knees and push them apart. He ran his hands slowly, inexorably up Segundus' thighs, his fingers splayed so that they might touch as much skin as possible. Just as he reached the soft skin where thigh met hip he withdrew, making Segundus clutch at him in desperation.

“What do you want, John? Tell me what you want from me.”

Segundus pulled him closer, so that he was standing between his legs. He raised a hand to Childermass' face and drew his finger around the line of his lips. Childermass quickly got the idea and opened his mouth to lick at that questing digit. He took the very tip of it into his mouth and bit down.

“Oh,” said Segundus, “Oh, yes.”

Childermass released his finger and kissed him, hungry and deep, lapping his tongue into Segundus' mouth as he pulled his nightshirt up higher. Segundus ran his hands into Childermass' hair, finding it soft and still cold. Both men groaned as Childermass pulled away, and as he sunk to his knees Segundus kept his hands were they where, pressing his fingers in tighter, even. Childermass got down on his knees and trailed his hands back up Segundus' thighs, following them with his lips, raining delicate kisses on his skin until he reached the base of his cockstand where he simply breathed.

“John,” Segundus said in a tremulous voice, “Please, John.”

First, there was a touch of tongue, so soft it might have been imagined out of longing for it. Then Childermass pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Segundus' balls. He took them into his mouth and Segundus made a noise he had never heard from himself, a sort of groaning sigh that was as much about despair as desire. Childermass licked, then, from base to tip, before engulfing the majority of him in the wet heat of him. Segundus gritted out praises and curses, thanking God and the Raven King for the talent and devotion of his dear, dear Childermass. He wanted his present torment to go on forever, that he might always feel the rush of blood in his ears and the vibration of the odd happy murmur from below. But of course it could not last! As Childermass paid special attention to his cockhead and rolled his balls in his hand Segundus felt the world drop away from him for a moment, locked his legs around Childermass' shoulders and had to bite down quite savagely on his lower lip to keep from shouting with the white-hot joy that went through him as he came off.

When he regained his senses he found he was lying on his back on the table. Childermass crawled over him, a hungry gleam in his eye as he unfastened his breeches. Segundus smiled broadly as Childermass drew himself out and ran his hands over his length. Yes, he thought, though his voice did not quite make it out of his throat.

“I want,” Childermass began, but then he ducked his head, his hair falling in the way of his face. Segundus reached up to brush it back and then to pull Childermass down for a kiss that tasted bitter and forbidden.

“Anything,” he whispered, and would have added _I love you_ were it not for the one tiny part of him that recognised that as a terrible idea and gagged him before he could make a fool of himself.

Childermass pulled away to arrange Segundus' legs, pulling them back together and smearing between his thighs whatever part of his emission Childermass hadn't managed to swallow. He glanced up at Segundus, seeking the permission in his eyes before he slipped his cock between them. He thrust there, hard and needy, and Segundus did his best to keep his legs tight together to help him through. Childermass bent low to claim his mouth, the movements of his tongue matching those of his prick, and Segundus felt the delicious surge of a sort of secondary orgasm. Childermass bit down on his shoulder as his own release coursed through him, and they clung together on the tabletop until he had wrung himself out completely.

Segundus idly petted Childermass' hair as they lay entwined on the table together, until a thought occurred to him. “I am very glad Mr Honeyfoot has such high standards in furniture,” he said, pausing his hands as he considered it. “I dread to think what might have happened if he had bought something cheap and flimsy!”

Childermass raised himself to look at Segundus with an expression of such complete confusion and disbelief that Segundus wondered if had sprouted an extra head, but in the next moment he smiled the broadest smile Segundus had ever seen on him, a full-face smile that might have warmed the entire county.

“What?” Segundus was vaguely concerned he was being laughed at.

“You,” Childermass said, and then, as if he were being forced to explain something very plain and self-evident, “You are very lovely, Mr Segundus.”

Segundus squirmed and looked away, unaccustomed as he was to this kind of frank praise. “You are too kind.”

“Not kind enough, I fear.”

It was necessary, then, to kiss Childermass again in order to drive away the shades of unhappiness that had appeared at his edges. When he pulled back he saw that it had worked, at least for the moment, and Childermass seemed content to lie quietly and have his hair stroked.

Segundus had every intention of staying awake, for the sake of safety if not hygiene, but with the weight of his lover bearing him down and the warmth of love and closeness in his veins he felt quite secure enough to close his eyes. Just for a moment, he told himself. Only for a moment.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry to have to tell you that this story will not be updated for two weeks. I'm going on holiday tomorrow for a week and won't have time to write anything, so I won't even start on the next chapter until I get back. I really wanted to finish it before I left but it has grown into a lovely monster and I didn't want to rush it. 
> 
> I hope you will bear with me and join me when normal programming resumes!


	10. Chapter Ten

 

Segundus woke with a stiff neck and a very strong sense of having forgotten something important. The blue-grey light that precedes the dawn cast the room in deep shadow, and it took him a moment before he realised that he was not tucked up in his bed but was still sprawled out out the kitchen table.

“Oh, hell!” he said and sat up, wrenching his neck further.

A chortle from nearby informed him that he was not alone. “Good morning, Mr Segundus,” Childermass drawled. “And here I thought I would have to carry you to your chamber to preserve your modesty.”

Childermass was dressed, damn him, and sitting on a chair with his boots propped up on the table and a plate of what appeared to be bread and jam beside him. As Segundus watched he tore off a piece and ate it, grinning.

“I see you have made yourself at home,” Segundus grumbled, though he was not truly cross. “What time is it?”

“We've a while before true daylight,” he said as he chewed. “And since you did not offer me the hospitality of a bed, me being wounded as I am, I thought it only fair to take my comforts where I could find them.”

“It was not my idea to sleep here!”

Childermass rolled his eyes, and Segundus watched with a certain fascination as he sucked a smear of jam off his thumb.

“Is that,” Segundus began in a thickened voice, “Is that the blackberry? We had a very good batch of that this year. Mr Honeyfoot was concerned they might have acquired magical properties, growing in such close proximity to the house, but we have observed nothing unusual in them.”

A warm smile trickled across Childermass' face. “I'm afraid it is only the plum.”

“Oh,” said Segundus, who thought it rather irritating that he was so frequently cast between monologue and monosyllable when talking to Childermass. It made him sound quite foolish.

“Here,” Childermass said. He picked up a piece of bread laid thick with jam and held it out.

Segundus went somewhat dry-mouthed at the offer, then found a spark of daring inside himself. He leaned forwards and ate the bread directly from Childermass' hand. It was indeed the plum jam which, while delicious, had come from the shop in town and not the garden at Starecross, so was unlikely to be magical in any way. Childermass was looking at him with that expression of confused wonder again, and, thinking that he enjoyed seeing it more than almost any other expression, Segundus took hold of his wrist and chased away the crumbs and rogue spots of jam from Childermass' fingers.

A deep sound of surprise was his reward, and he kept going, seeking out any trace of sweetness he could find. A wild thought sprung into his head – that he would like to smear jam over Childermass solely for the purpose of licking it off again – but he hurried it away to the darker recesses of his mind and drew away with a last little kiss to Childermass' palm.

He looked down into Childermass' eyes and saw not the heat of arousal but the same sadness that had arisen in him before they had slept.

“John?” he said, and slid himself off the table to sit in a chair facing him. “What is it?”

Childermass shook his head. “I do not wish to trouble you.”

“When you look at me like that I am greatly troubled, sir, so it is far too late to concern yourself about _that_.”

Childermass sighed lightly and scratched at his face. “I do not know what you want from me.”

“Have I not made myself clear?” Segundus said, somewhat taken aback. “I thought... that is to say, I, I want you, John! As much as I can, anyway. Within the given limitations of our present circumstances, of course.”

He was fixed, then, with a very piercing sort of gaze, as if Childermass might strip back all his layers and dig out his darkest secrets with his eyes alone. Segundus thought it fortunate that he did not have all that many secrets, and none of them terribly dark.

“You mean it,” Childermass said at length.

“There is no need to sound so surprised.” Segundus reached for a piece of bread, so that he might have something to do with his hands.

Childermass watched him as he ate. “You will grow resentful,” he said in a very matter-of-fact tone.

“I suppose I would, if I were some poor maid with no occupation. Perhaps if you left me unwed and pregnant...”

“I am being serious.”

Segundus took Childermass' hand in both of his. “As am I. We are both very fortunate to be dedicated to our vocation. Who we are and... and what we are cannot be helped.” He kissed Childermass' knuckles, then leaned in close so that he could rest their foreheads together. “Perhaps you might grow resentful of me, that I will put Lady Pole's welfare before your own.”

A small sigh went through Childermass, which might have been accompanied by a smile. “I would only ask that you refrain from buggering the good lady on the kitchen table.”

Segundus felt the blush all the way to his toes and pulled back in alarm. “John!”

With a chuckle Childermass pulled Segundus close, close enough that his words could skip over Segundus' lips. “Save yourself for me, John.”

Segundus did not have time to be scandalised before Childermass was kissing him, rough and with a touch of desperation. Both were breathing hard when they broke apart.

“Not the table,” said Segundus, “I beg you.”

Childermass allowed Segundus take him by the hand and lead him through the eerie silence of the house. This was a terrible idea, some small part of Segundus informed him in stern tones, but the far greater part of him was filled with a churn of excitement that could not be denied. Childermass was a shadow behind him, making no noise at all, even upon the creaking stair.

Entering his chamber Segundus had a brief flash of regret that he had left his bed rumpled from his poor sleep and that it was his habit to scatter books and papers carelesly on the floor. There were even a few plates that he had been meaning to return to the kitchen, though he was quite sure they were not so terribly old. It was his misfortune that there was just enough light at this hour for all these things to be plainly seen. He locked his door then pinned Childermass to it, in no small part to keep him from looking too closely at his personal chaos.

“Why on earth did you dress again?” Segundus chastised, his hands clenching in far too much fabric.

Childermass ducked his head into Segundus' neck and sighed, which was no kind of answer, but since he then gripped Segundus by his buttocks and growled, “I want you,” Segundus did not think to press the matter further.

Segundus whimpered and stepped closer, shoving his hands under his jacket to grip around his back. “I... I do not know... that is, I have never,” Segundus panted into his mouth.

“I know,” Childermass said, backing him up towards the bed. “I will show you. Will you let me show you?”

Words seemed to scatter around him. The world felt slightly off-kilter, as if he were looking at it through a thick pane of glass. He thought about Childermass, about Childermass knowing him in the most intimate way, and the effect became so intense that he was very glad indeed that his lover chose that moment to push him back onto the bed, for otherwise his legs might have given out in a much less enticing fashion.

Childermass climbed on top of him and kissed him thoroughly. Segundus gave himself over to sensation, to kisses and caresses and the steady undulation of the body above him.

“I have thought about you,” Childermass said roughly, “Often.”

Segundus would have liked to have produced a very clever answer, some witty riposte that would have restored to him some semblance of control, but the most he could manage was a hoarsely whispered, “No more than I you.”

A very serious sort of look raced over Childermass and he touched his fingers to Segundus' cheekbones. “What bloody stupid fools you must have surrounded yourself with, that not one among them could see you.”

Before Segundus could begin to fathom a reply (he could not even decide whether to be indignant or charmed) Childermass pinned him back to the bed with a firm kiss and a roll of his hips that pressed their heated cocks together through the fabric of their clothing. Segundus whined a little and hooked a leg around Childermass' thigh. He was so distracted by all of this kissing and rubbing that he did not mark the moment when Childermass reached into his jacket and took out a small bottle, and indeed did not notice it at all until Childermass laid it on Segundus' chest as he stood and began to remove his clothes.

“What is it?” Segundus asked, picking it up to look at it. There was within a clear oil, and in a moment he understood its purpose all too plainly. He could not keep the note of outrage from his voice when he said, “Do you always have this about your person, sir?”

Childermass shrugged as he removed his waistcoat (he made a quicker job of it than Segundus ever could, so quick in fact that he wondered if there was some magic involved) and replied, “Not always. Though I do find there is usually some profit in travelling hopefully.”

There was no answer to that, Segundus thought, so he satisfied himself with watching the slow revelation of Childermass' skin. When he was finally naked he stood still for a moment, and Segundus fancied he saw something like uncertainty in the line of his shoulders and the rapid clenching of his fists. Segundus propped himself up on his elbows and permitted himself the indulgence of looking upon Childermass' body. He had already had the pleasure of seeing most of it, but never the whole all at once, and it was a most affecting sight. He was all over pale, save for those parts of him that were usually exposed to the sun and his prick, which was reddened and stiff with arousal. He noted that Childermass was rather more slender than he usually appeared, his many layers lending him breadth as well as mystery. In his nakedness he might be compared to a whipcord, or perhaps a whippet.

“What are you smiling about?” Childermass grumbled.

“Only that I have never seen you naked before now,” he said.

Childermass gritted his teeth. “I am aware. Well, out with it. Whatever it is you are thinking.”

Segundus sat up, the better to regard the feast before him. He tipped his head to one side and made a show of consideration. “Oh, I suppose you will do,” he sighed.

For a moment Childermass' face shuttered, and Segundus thought he had surely done a very terrible thing, but in the next instant he relaxed and huffed out a small laugh. He climbed on to the bed with a knee either side of Segundus' hips. “Will I, indeed?”

“Perhaps,” said Segundus. He lifted one hand which he pressed first to a thigh and then slowly moved upwards, over hipbone and up to the taut muscles of Childermass' abdomen, which fluttered a little at his touch. Childermass covered that hand with his own, briefly squeezed his fingers and then pushed Segundus back onto the bed, pinning his hand to the covers as he leant down to kiss him.

With his other hand he rucked up Segundus' nightshirt, though it took their combined efforts to properly divest him of that and the dressing gown. That done, Childermass returned to kissing with enough zeal to make Segundus' head spin, grinding his hips down at the same time, pressing cock to cock and drawing gasps from both men.

“Oh,” said Segundus, “I think you will do very well!”

He knew, now, what to expect from the intrusion of a finger within him, and tensed only a little when it began. He was glad that Childermass had come prepared in this new way, for the presence of the oil made the first moments much more tolerable to him. He clutched at Childermass' shoulders and nodded encouragement when he paused to make sure he was welcomed, but when, after a few minutes more, he introduced a second finger, Segundus could not keep himself from arching up off the bed. He felt a cry rise up in his throat and forced himself to smother it, letting it out in a series of sharp gasps.

Childermass worked at him for time beyond counting, stretching and preparing and in all ways laying Segundus bare to him. His blunt fingers touched that place inside that turned him to fire, then to liquid, and he could not help but cry out. Both froze, eyes locked and ears suddenly alert to the yawning silence of the house, trying to discern if they had been heard.

After a few agonising moments Childermass whispered, “Shall I go on?”

There was doubt in his eyes, and the wiser part of Segundus knew he should say no, they must leave off, the risk was too great and the reward too fleeting. But the rest of him, all the parts that ached for touch and affection and went so often ignored, cried out in unison that he _must_ continue, consequences be damned! He pulled Childermass down for a kiss and moved his hips just _so_ , inviting him deeper.

It seemed Childermass had come to a similar conclusion. He moved faster now, pressing in with a greater urgency and then, impossibly, there were three fingers inside Segundus. Childermass pressed them in and out a few times, then out completely. Segundus trembled at the loss, but Childermass only leaned in to his ear: “Turn over, John. It will be easier.”

Segundus did as he was told and turned onto his front. He dragged a pillow towards him and rested his head on it. Childermass pulled his hips up, arranging him to his satisfaction before pressing the head of his cock where his fingers had so recently been.

“You don't know,” he said, soft enough that Segundus might not have heard him were he not employing every fibre of his being in paying attention, “You do not know, John, how long I have...” his voice trailed off, replaced by a soft stroke of his hand down Segundus' spine, setting every nerve alight as it went.

“Oh, please,” Segundus gasped, for he could no longer stand to be kept on the edge of a knife.

The first push of it stole his breath. Childermass went slowly, achingly slowly. Segundus screwed up his eyes, felt the burning pain give way to burning pleasure. Still Childermass took his time, stroked reassurances down his back, his sides, igniting each of his nerves with sharp ecstasy. When Childermass had (finally, finally) seated his whole length inside he thought he might have achieved a state of being beyond the understanding of ordinary men.

Slowly, still slowly, he pulled back, and in a rush Segundus was aware of everything, of Childermass' breath in ragged gasps and his fingers digging in to the soft skin of Segundus' hips. He felt the scrape of cloth under his cheek and his knees and the weight of his own arousal between his legs. He buried his face in the pillow, the better to muffle the noises he so very much wanted to make. As Childermass returned to him, quicker now, faster, Segundus learned that he wanted, he wanted more and faster, to be given everything Childermass could offer him. He wanted to tell him all of this but he bit his tongue. There were very good reasons for keeping quiet, he absolutely _must_ keep quiet, but that did not stop him wanting to shout brokenly and joyously as he was taken.

He felt Childermass bite his shoulder then kiss the small wound, and Segundus could only groan rather helplessly and push back, encouraging Childermass with his body. Childermass mouthed at the nape of his neck and kept up his pace, breathing hard through his nose.

“Yes,” Segundus heard him say, his voice tickling close to his ear. “Yes, John!”

Childermass breathed harshly behind him, pushed in hard before going suddenly still. He trembled briefly and then fell down against Segundus' back, kissing his shoulder blades with an open mouth. He slumped sideways, slipping out of Segundus (which set shudders of a whole new kind running through him) then pulling him flush against his chest. He licked and sucked at Segundus' neck as he took his prick in hand, and between these two competing sensations Segundus lost himself. There was a buzzing in his head and a shaking all through his body, and when Childermass slipped the fingers of his other hand back inside him he spent with a desperate noise that he simply could not hold back.

He closed his eyes and fought for air. All his limbs were tangled with Childermass', so that he was not sure where one ended and the other began. He did not think it mattered overmuch.

“John,” he said at last. He was not certain how much time had passed, only that his heart had ceased its clamour and he felt cold where their sweat was drying on his skin.

Childermass grunted and made space for him to roll over. They spent some minutes simply looking at one another. There was a black depth in Childermass' eyes that was quite the most marvellous thing Segundus had ever had the pleasure to look at. He hoped that he would never have to look away.

“Is it always like this, John?” he whispered. They lay close enough that Segundus could have counted Childermass' eyelashes, had he the inclination.

“In my wide and varied experience, you mean?” There was a teasing light in those eyes.

Segundus was too happy and near to sleep to tease back. “I only mean... how does anyone ever get anything done?”

A laugh bubbled up through Childermass like an emerging spring. When it had died away again, and he had smoothed away Segundus' frown with reassurances and soft touches, he said, “I might have need of checking on the Lady's welfare. From time to time. If that would be permissible.”

Segundus meant to say that he would permit him anything he liked, anything in his power to give, but all of a sudden sleep caught up with him, and with the sound of birdsong in his ears and the weight of a hand in his hair, he returned to sleep.

* * *

It was not so very much later that he had his second awakening. At first he could not quite remember why it was that he should be naked on top of the counterpane, his dressing gown draped over him like a blanket and his entire body aching for more sleep.

He turned over, reaching out across the bed for a warm presence that was not there. He was quite alone. He sat up and looked about him, his memory returning from the fog of sleep like revellers coming home from some wild dance. A month, he thought dismally.

His window was open and a soft breeze toyed with his curtains, so he supposed it was no great mystery what had happened. Flopping back onto his pillows felt like an entirely rational response, so this he did, covering his eyes to keep out the unbearable cheerfulness of the morning. He felt sore and bereft. There was not even a note! He thought he might have deserved a note.

Before he could sink too deeply there came upon his door a frantic hammering, which broke him out of his melancholy as surely as if he had been fired out of a canon.

“I am awake!” he cried, and threw his dressing gown on as he hurried to the door, “I am here!”

He opened the door a crack and saw Mr Honeyfoot in the hallway, his hands anxiously knotted and his face drawn up with worry, though he relaxed somewhat upon seeing Segundus. “Oh, Mr Segundus, I thought the worst!”

“What is the matter?”

“We have been burgled!” Mr Honeyfoot cried, “A scoundrel has broken the kitchen window, doubtless with designs on Lady Pole!”

“Heavens!” he said, though it was the very least of the curses he could have called upon for the purpose. “Is the lady alright?”

“Yes, we believe so. The door remained locked and there was no sign of any attempt to break it down. Mr Black is with her now.”

“And the... the burglar?”

“No sign, sir, though I would like you to see it for yourself.”

Segundus promised that he would, and retreated to his room to make himself decent. Briefly, he rested his head back on the door. What a pretty mess he had made!

The kitchen was not too badly damaged, all things considered. The window would have to be replaced (and Segundus had a mind to forward the invoice to Hanover Square) but there was no further damage. Except, of course, to Segundus' pride, but that was a private hurt that would mend in its own time.

“I cannot fathom,” said Mr Honeyfoot as Segundus knelt to sweep up the broken glass, “What kind of a burglar pauses in his criminal activity to eat bread and jam.”

“A hungry one, I suppose.” Segundus was glad that his friend could not see his face, for he was blushing furiously.

“Aye,” Mr Honeyfoot sighed. “And you heard nothing?”

“No. I am a sound sleeper.” 

“I fancy I heard some commotion in the early hours. I am only glad I did not attempt to confront him, since Mr Black and your good self slept so soundly. I would have been left quite exposed!”

Not near so exposed as I would have been, Segundus thought, and had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. He laid a calming hand on Mr Honeyfoot's arm and set about making tea and laying out a plate of biscuits for them to share with Lady Pole.

There was one more indignity to be endured that day. The soreness in his backside was such that it prevented him from sitting comfortably on any seat, and he spent a good deal of energy hiding his winces whenever he was obliged to sit. Every time he felt that particular twinge he was reminded forcibly of the night before, of exquisite pleasure and close embraces, and was left fighting a very inconvenient wash of arousal. When Mr Honeyfoot expressed a certain nervousness about the security of the house, therefore, he leapt at the opportunity to check every door and window in Starecross, for this was an occupation that would require him to remain on his feet and keep his traitorous thoughts turned to more practical matters.

As he inspected the locks and latches it occurred to him that it ought to be Childermass engaged in this demonstration of penance. He had broken the window, after all, and then abandoned his lover while he slept. Hardly the behaviour of a gentleman! Of course, Childermass was not a gentleman. He was a scoundrel and a villain. He was rough and coarse and every bit the opposite of those things a gentleman was supposed to be, and yet Segundus could not now imagine wanting anything different. When he thought about how much better he would feel if he only had to glance over his shoulder or look up from his book to be able to see Childermass he was sorely tempted to set out for London immediately, on foot if needs be, and drag him back to Yorkshire by his unruly hair.

He took a steadying breath. He was not going to pine, nor sit in a high place to watch the roads for his return. A month, Childermass had said; that was not so very long.

From downstairs came the ringing of a bell, which brought an abrupt end to his moment of self-pity. The Lady was ready for her luncheon, and it would not do to keep her waiting.

Segundus squared his shoulders and set out for the kitchen. He could wait a month.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for bearing with me! Updates will be much more frequent from now on.


	11. Chapter Eleven

With the possible exception of his final year at university, the stress of which had caused him to cease sleeping altogether and seriously contemplate setting fire to his books in order to run away to join the circus, Segundus had never known a single month of his life to be so exhausting.

After Stephen took his leave he and Mr Honeyfoot attempted to hire a maid to help with the general running of the house, but they struggled to keep one. In the worst instance a girl from a nearby town set both feet over the threshold before turning pale, muffling a gasp in her hand and running straight back down the path. Others lasted as long as a few days before finding other employment or simply failing to come back to work.

It was most vexing.

“I cannot explain it,” said Mr Honeyfoot as between them they folded a set of bed sheets, “What drives them away, Mr Segundus?”

It is the stench of magic, Segundus thought, but he said, “I do not know. Perhaps they do not like to be so near to madness.”

He frowned. He had not meant to say that, did not even really believe it to be true, but having spoken it could not now remember what he had intended to say. There was a faint ringing in his ears.

“I suppose you are right,” Mr Honeyfoot sighed.

Yes, Segundus thought. I must be right.

Segundus had also taken fervently to letter-writing. He wrote frequent and detailed accounts to Sir Walter and Mrs Wintertowne, each desiring to be kept appraised of even the most mundane activity in Lady Pole's present situation. They shared feelings of guilt and relief, Segundus surmised, and wished to assuage both by keeping up a certain level of involvement.

He was also in regular correspondence with Mrs Arabella Strange. She did not ask too keenly after Lady Pole, but passed on news of London that she thought might interest her friend and sent those publications and articles from the newspapers she thought might prove soothing as well as interesting.

“Will she visit?” Lady Pole asked, with the air of one who does not care much one way or the other.

“She does not write as such, my Lady, no,” Segundus said.

She picked at the sleeve of her dress. “It is no matter. Will you read to me?”

This was another of his new duties, and one which he enjoyed despite the attendant headaches and sore throats. He read to Lady Pole for as long as she cared to listen, sometimes as much as three or four hours of the day. When he left her he would feel light-headed and a little uncertain on his feet, and would ask for a cup of tea to steady his nerves.

“You do not seem entirely well, Mr Segundus,” said Mr Honeyfoot some two weeks into this regime.

Truth be told, Segundus did not feel well. He felt drowsy, as if he had not slept properly, and there was a tremor in his right hand that did not sit well with him. “I am fine,” he said.

“I think you are working too hard,” said Mr Honeyfoot sadly, “And yet there is no respite. We cannot force anyone to work for us.”

Segundus shook his head. He would certainly not like to make anyone come to this house who did not wish to be here. The air had grown thick and sometimes smelled as heady as a forest after rain. Sometimes he thought he knew the cause – _it is magic! Of course it is magic! -_ but the idea would vanish as soon as he tried to think about it properly.

For his part Mr Honeyfoot did not seem to be as affected, but Segundus could not in all conscience allow him to do the main part of the work. “I will be quite alright,” he said firmly, and mustered a smile to accompany his promise.

Sir Walter came to visit on the thirtieth day of Lady Pole's habitation at Starecross, bringing with him a trunk full of her clothes and trinkets from home.

“I did not know what she would most like,” he admitted with a sad kind of shrug. “So I brought what I thought would be most appropriate. I know that she had a particular fondness for her blanket, and those slippers, but everything else...”

“I am sure she will be glad of whatever you have brought,” said Segundus. He offered to show him to his wife's chamber but he shook his head and stepped back a little.

“Thank you, no. I will not trouble her.”

He stayed the night, and Segundus was glad he had brought Stephen to valet for him, for he was certain that he would collapse under the weight of it if he had needed to navigate Sir Walter's care on top of everything else. He installed Sir Walter in one of the guest rooms, apologised profusely for the lack of comfort, and went scurrying to his own chamber before he could be asked to do anything further.

When he splashed water on his face that night he happened to glance up at his reflection, and was startled to see a much changed man looking back at him. There were dark smudges under his eyes and a smear of grey at his hairline. He touched it, wondering how long it had been there, and whether this meant he should consider himself middle-aged. Sighing, as much at his vanity as at the apparent departure of his youth, he turned away from the mirror and prepared for bed. It did not do to pine, not for anything or, he told himself more sternly, anyone.

Sleep came upon him like a hammer blow.

His dreams took him to his childhood home, to a ball that was the sum of all the balls he had ever seen thrown there. There was no music, which was odd, but did not appear to hinder the dancing pairs turning and twirling around the ballroom. He envied them, for he knew he could not dance, not here, and they looked so very beautiful.

He saw his mother on the other side of the room and his heart went tight – he had thought she was dead! How wonderful, how good it was to be wrong! She was laughing and talking with someone he could not see, so he began to skirt his way around the edge of the dance to reach her. He was graceless, bumping into the dancers as he went, apologising and trying to push himself further back against the wall to spare them.

Finally, he was close enough to tug on his mother's sleeve. She turned to him with a polite smile.

“Have the truffles run out?” she asked him.

“I don't know,” said Segudus, confused. “I only wanted to talk to you.”

She looked him up and down. Her dark hair twinkled with tiny gemstones he did not remember ever seeing her wear before. “I do not know you, sir,” she said.

“It's John, mother,” he said, and took hold of her hand, which was cold. “Your son.”

“I do not think so, sir.” She pulled her hand away. “I have three sons and none of them is called John.”

Segundus felt the clutches of panic in his throat. “You have four sons!” he wailed.

“You are upsetting the lady.”

Segundus wheeled around to see Childermass standing behind him. But it was not _his_ Childermass, for this man had all his hair swept back out of his face and his suit was of an opulent white, exactly the colour of snowdrops. He was frowning rather severely at Segundus.

“I do not mean to,” Segundus said, though he could not keep the tremor from his voice.

“Perhaps you should dance, sir,” said the man who was not Childermass, “As that is why we are all here.”

“I do not think that would be wise,” said his mother with a note of disdain in her voice. He had never heard her speak that way before.

The man who was a lot like Childermass looked him up and down and then smiled a most cruel smile. “No, indeed.”

He laid a hand on Segundus shoulder and steered him away from his mother. “No, sir, please!” Segundus cried, but this not-Childermass did not stop in his dragging. He whirled Segundus around, his grip crushingly tight on Segundus' hand, and pulled him through the dancers, who parted before Childermass as the Red Sea before Moses. Segundus craned around to catch glimpses of his mother, who had returned to talking and laughing with her shadowy companion.

Childermass kept pulling Segundus until he could throw him out of the door and into a cold and snowy night.

“You will take your leave now, sir,” Childermass said. “And not trouble the lady any further.”

“I don't mean to be trouble!” said Segundus, trying without success to look around Childermass and see his mother again. “You must believe me, I only wanted -”

“It does not matter.” Childermass placed a hand on Segundus' chest and pushed him back so forcefully that he fell. “There is no place here for one such as you.”

With that, Childermass withdrew and closed the door.

Segundus cried out and ran to the door, but it was locked fast. It was also, he realised with a jolt of surprise, the door to Starecross. He looked around and indeed this was Starecross, and not his family home at all! Well, how could it be, he thought, since that house was sold some twenty years ago. It was someone else's home now. He sat down on the step and hugged his knees.

“Mr Segundus?”

It was Childermass who spoke, and when Segundus looked up he certainly looked like he was a proper sort of Childermass. He was leaning on the gate and smoking a pipe.

“Did you find the dream spell?” Segundus asked, peering through the darkness and the falling snow. “Is it really you?”

“I think you should have stayed at home, sir,” said Childermass, who did not seem to have heard the question. He blew out a cloud of smoke. “This is no place for a gentleman.”

A wave of sadness came over him and Segundus hugged his knees closer. “Well, where am I supposed to go? If I am not fit to be anywhere?”

The Childermass at the gate shrugged. “I suppose you should find somewhere else. Where you will do no further harm.”

Segundus woke up to find his pillow damp. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, cursing the daylight for arriving so swiftly. His head felt thick, as if he had not really slept but instead spent the night packing his skull with cotton. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw sparks, which did not particularly help, but felt marginally better than the thought that he had been crying over a dream.

He did not like to think of himself as the kind of man who would be disturbed by his dreams. It felt like a weakness, like something that would give his father cause to sigh and his brothers reason to laugh, and as such he tried very hard to put it from his mind for the rest of the day. In this endeavour he was, unfortunately, not entirely successful. Images from the dream returned to him at the most inopportune moments: he nearly slipped down the last stair when he remembered how coolly his mother had dismissed him and he cut his finger open with the paring knife whilst dwelling on how rudely both Childermasses had treated him.

As he sucked the wound and rummaged in a cabinet for a bandage he thought about dancing, and shuddered a little. No, he could not dance. He had tried it, when he was an adolescent and his father still had some hope of marrying him off. The other Segundus boys had been very self-sufficient in the way of marriage and employment, whilst shy John had spent a small while foundering on the shore of adulthood before finding safe harbour in magic. It had been a long time before he had realised exactly why he did not enjoy dancing and longer still before he had built up the courage to explore the kind of dance he really wanted. And look where that had led him!

“You could have left the luncheon for me to prepare, sir,” said Stephen, cutting through Segundus' musings as he appeared in the kitchen. “Lady Pole tells me you are having some trouble maintaining a staff, and I am quite capable.”

“Oh! Thank you,” said Segundus. His gaze flicked briefly to the rose at Stephen's mouth and then away. It was no longer a surprise to see it on Lady Pole; in fact he had grown used to it, as one might a pair of spectacles or a garish coat. One could get used to anything, Segundus thought.

After luncheon he attempted to carve out a little solitude by hiding himself in his study, but within ten minutes of his sitting down Mr Honeyfoot appeared at the door.

“You are not yourself, sir,” he said as he closed the door behind him. “I wonder if you have need of a holiday.”

“I would not dream of it, not at this crucial time! My place is here. This is my work, Mr Honeyfoot. My life!”

Mr Honeyfoot regarded him with a warm expression. “I am glad to hear you say it, sir, as I feel much the same. But it will not do for you to wear yourself out.”

Segundus shook his head and smiled a little ruefully. “I am quite well. Last night I had some troubling dreams, that is all.”

“Oh? Well that is most fascinating!” Mr Honeyfoot moved with a surprising grace to sit in the other chair and fix Segundus with an excited gaze. “Tell me what you dreamed, and I may interpret for you!”

Segundus spluttered for a moment, unsure of how much he could say without incriminating himself. He considered making some excuse and fleeing the room, but Mr Honeyfoot was looking at him with such honest eyes that he could not bring himself to do it.

“I dreamed of my mother,” he said at last, thinking this likely the safest thing to recall, though it made him feel dreadfully ashamed. “We were at a ball in my family home. She did not know me, nor even that she had a son called John.”

Saying it aloud felt oddly comforting, as if by giving voice to his worst feelings he could expel them permanently. Some of the horror that had clutched at his heart all morning loosened, and he could breathe easily again.

Mr Honeyfoot considered this for a moment. “I can see how that would disturb you, though I think that is a very natural sort of dream. You have gone through a great many changes of late. Perhaps you are worried that you are leaving your old life behind, or betraying yourself in some way?”

Segundus bowed his head. “I suppose you are right. I have not often thought of my mother these past years.”

“Then it is only guilt,” said Mr Honeyfoot, squeezing Segundus' shoulder and smiling benevolently, “Which we all must carry on our shoulders, those of us who have felt untimely loss. I have no doubt that wherever your mother is she knows you, John, and is very proud.”

There were tears in Segundus' eyes again, though he wondered if they were more tears of gratitude than grief.

Much later, when he was tucked in his bed with a cup of warm milk in his hands and the smell of lavender suffusing his chamber, Segundus thought he was very lucky to have a friend such as Mr Honeyfoot, who cared so much. The milk, which Mr Honeyfoot had pressed into his hands as he climbed the stair for bed, was very soothing and filled his stomach with a gentle warmth, while the freshly crushed flowers under his pillow were going a long way towards easing his headache. He felt rather as if he had been wrapped in a loving embrace, held tight and secure by another's regard for him. His thoughts seemed to float free of his body, his daily cares melting away like candle wax, and by and by he ease into sleep.

To his surprise and delight he did not have any further nightmares, and he awoke feeling almost refreshed. His mood brightened, and he made sure to thank Mr Honeyfoot by fetching him his favourite fruit cake from the village as soon as he was able.

There was no visit from Childermass, nor any word at all, and Segundus told himself that it was just as well, for he had work to do and no need of such distractions. It was exactly as they had agreed.

It was by now summer, and there was a certain sticky quality about the air which Segundus did not enjoy. There was the publication Norrell's very dull book of magic and a new war, to which Jonathan Strange had been summoned. If Segundus had thought about it he would have said these things were very likely to keep Childermass busy, but the heat had sapped his energy and left him dull, so that he not think about it, did not think much of anything but the work of the house.

 * * *

The invitation came after the war was over, by which time Lady Pole was taking regular walks around the garden (supported by Segundus and encouraged by Mr Honeyfoot) and Segundus had all but forgotten there was a world beyond the borders of Starecross. Whatever it was that existed out there seemed of little importance compared to the world within. He had grown sluggish in replying to his letters and allowed a small mountain of correspondence to pile up on his desk. Like a lot of things, it did not seem to matter that much, and he might have let the whole thing slip his mind completely were it not for Mr Honeyfoot, who spotted the invitation and swept it off the stack of post to examine it.

“Well of course you must go!” he exclaimed. “You have long been in need of a holiday. And an invitation from Jonathan Strange himself!”

“More likely his wife,” said Segundus, taking the invitation and reading it again, though he did not remember having read it the first time. “We have exchanged some letters in the past. It does not matter. My place is here.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr Honeyfoot. “You will go to the party, Mr Segundus, if I must tie you to the top of the mail coach myself.”

It did not come to that. It took a good deal of coaxing and persuasion, but in the end he left Starecross of his own volition. He felt a tug at his heart as he crossed the threshold, and turned back at the gate to wave to Mr Honeyfoot, who shooed him on his way.

As he boarded the coach he experienced a good deal of nervous shaking and sweating, which continued for perhaps an hour. It was only the thought of enduring Mr Honeyfoot's gentle disappointment that kept him from banging on the coach and demanding to be taken back. His thoughts turned frequently to home, largely without his direction, and he had to rest his head against the cool glass of the coach window in an attempt to ease his sickness at the very notion of leaving it behind. He wrapped his arms around himself and closed his eyes, blocking out everything but the comforting motion of the journey.

By and by he grew less anxious, indeed less ill overall. His headache receded. His stomach quietened. His heart relaxed into a normal rhythm. He blinked, and thought that he might very well have just woken up for the first time in many weeks. The countryside rolling past looked lush and verdant, thriving in the last throes of summer. Things were not so lively around Starecross, he thought, or if they were he had not cared to notice.

His feeling of recovery, as if from some terrible illness, continued all the way to London. By the time he arrived at Soho Square he was walking with something of a spring in his step and was smiling quite broadly when the maid opened the door to him. He swept his hat off with a stylish flair and bowed to her. The maid blushed as she showed him to the parlour.

“Mr Segundus, how lovely to see you!” said Arabella upon seeing him. She took both his hands in hers. “Oh, but you do not look well, sir!”

“I am quite well, I assure you,” said Segundus, who was still smiling, and was starting to wonder if he would be able to stop smiling at some point in the future. “In fact I feel better than I have in some time! Ah, you will want to hear all about Lady Pole.”

“I thank you, no,” said Arabella. There was a depth of sadness in her eyes that Segundus could not account for, and it was this that ended his smiling. “Only tell me that she no longer seeks to destroy herself.”

He squeezed her hands. “She is happier now, I promise you.”

Arabella nodded. “Thank you,” she said, smiling though she blinked back tears. “But, heavens, you are here for the party! Let us have no sadness. It is sad enough to be saying our goodbyes, without our other troubles.”

The party – which was a celebration of Jonathan Strange's retirement from magic as well as the Stranges' farewell to London – began at six. Segundus had dug out his best suit for the occasion, at Mr Honeyfoot's gentle insistence. He had worn it to each of his brothers' weddings and whilst the style was likely out of fashion (his first brother having married when Segundus was sixteen) it looked new enough that he hoped it would not be too offensive. The coat was a little short in the sleeves, since he had not yet grown his last inches when it was bought, but it was made of such an obviously fine material that he did not think it would matter. It was a deep navy in colour, with a high velvet collar that tickled his ears when he turned his head.

“Mr Segundus!” cried Arabella when she saw him, herself resplendent in a misty blue gown. “You look very fine. Doesn't he, Jonathan?”

Mr Strange nodded. There was a vacancy in his eyes that Segundus did not think had been there before, and though he smiled politely and said, “Indeed,” he did not seem to be following the conversation.

“You must mingle, sir,” said Arabella to Segundus, keeping a firm grip on her husband's arm. “Please, enjoy the party.”

Segundus bowed and Arabella steered Strange towards a quieter part of the festivities.

A string quartet played cheerful new music and there was a truly excellent offering of food. Perhaps it was another symptom of whatever change had come over him since leaving Starecross, but all of it was so delicious to him that he was reluctant indeed to abandon it to converse or dance. It was as if he were tasting things for the first time, discovering sweet and salt and bitter and sour like an explorer discovering the Americas. Even better was the wine, which lit up his tongue and throat with exciting new potentials.

Once he had eaten his fill and drunk enough to feel warm and cheered he found it very enjoyable to talk to the other guests, to make light conversation with this gentleman in his fashionable pantaloons and that lady with a pile of glorious curls on top of her head. He spent a remarkable fifteen minutes in the company of a Colonel in a splendid red jacket and learned an assortment of remarkable things about Mr Strange's service abroad, including his penchant for military biscuits and his talent for moving rivers.

There was one very noticeable absence, however, and after a long while of looking for a particularly sour-faced guest Segundus returned to Mrs Strange, complimented her on the party and asked, “Will Mr Norrell not be attending this evening?”

Of course, he did not care one whit if Mr Norrell would be attending. He only thought, in a somewhat unfocused way, that wherever Mr Norrell went his shadow would not be far behind. For now that he was thinking clearly again he discovered he had a great many things to tell said shadow, including a thing or two about keeping one's promises and not running away from one's lovers like a scoundrel.

While he had been thinking all of this, Arabella had gone tight-lipped and Jonathan gave a sad little sigh.

“You have not heard,” she said.

“Oh!” cried Segundus, “I confess I have heard nothing. Please, forgive me.”

Arabella shook her head and smiled. “It all happened so very suddenly, and it has been talked quite to death. It is all anyone wants to discuss. Save for the war, of course. Jonathan has broken with Mr Norrell, sir, so he will not be attending the party.”

Segundus felt his cheeks grow warm as his ignorance was exposed. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said, “And sorrier that I should cause offence.”

She took pity on him and said, “Please, do not concern yourself. We are too tied up in our lives here, I am sure! But will you dance, Mr Segundus? That is surely the purpose of a party.”

Flustered, he mumbled some excuse and instead departed in search of more wine. He glanced over his shoulder (the soft scrape of velvet across his face sent a shudder through him; it was a very pleasant sensation) and saw Arabella lean up to place a kiss on Jonathan's cheek.

Segundus stumbled a little as he left the party. He had no particular destination in mind, only a sudden and very keen sense that he should be away from the general throng. He had not drunk nearly enough wine, and decided that the kitchen could best help him remedy this problem.

It was just his sort of fortune that he should get turned around between the party and the kitchen and end up in a dark and quiet portion of the house with no idea how he had got there. He sat down at the foot of a narrow staircase and held his head in his hands. It was very heavy, his head, which he thought was likely a result of the drink, though he could not say for certain.

From above him he heard a sigh. It was a noise that told of a great deal of suffering, and Segundus thought he could understand that sentiment very well.

After a slight pause to allow the sigh to dissipate into the air, there came a voice. It was a rough sort of voice, grizzled at the edges but somehow warm in the middle.

“You will be angry with me.” It was not a question, but rather a statement of obvious fact.

Segundus turned and looked over his shoulder, and of  _course_  it was Childermass who spoke to him, of  _course_ Childermass would appear just as Segundus had given up all hope of seeing him again. It was very troubling, and he should be angry, he had every right to be angry, but he could not quite muster the proper invective. In place of anger he felt a growing warmth in his stomach, which probably meant he was very weak-willed. He did not particularly care.

“I am lost in a very beautiful house,” he said, smiling as he did so, “I have talked to a good many people and not felt a bit out of place. I have eaten the most  _excellent_  cheese puffs, really, Childermass, you must see if they have any left. Oh, and I no longer have a headache!”

“I suspect that will not last.”

“Come down from there,” Segundus said, exasperated. “I am straining my neck to look at you.”

If there was a rolling of eyes it was too dark for Segundus to see it, but come down Childermass did. He moved silently, and made as if to continue off the stairs and into the hall, but Segundus caught his coat cuff and pulled him back, urging him down until he sat down where Segundus wanted him. It was a tight fit, for the stair was very narrow indeed, but there would be time enough for not sitting closely together.

“I  _am_  angry,” said Segundus. “But I do not want to waste time, since you have deduced my feelings already.”

“Would you like an apology?”

Segundus sighed and leaned his head on Childermass' shoulder. It was very comfortable. He inhaled the smell of him: tobacco and aged wood, a hint of cinnamon.

“I have been kept very busy,” Childermass said, and there was a definite note of sadness in his voice. “And Norrell has not been so concerned with Lady Pole since she left. He thinks her taken-care of, I imagine.”

“Hmm,” said Segundus, noting that none of these was, in fact, apologetic. “You may be assured she is very well taken-care of.” He rubbed his face on the fabric of Childermass' coat. “Why are you here?”

“Norrell sent me. To, well,” Childermass broke off, sniffed and tried again, “To spy. To see if Strange plots anything against him. With the household distracted I intended -”

“It does not matter.” Segundus reached over with one hand to stroke down Childermass' arm. “I only wonder how we keep meeting in these ways. Unplanned. Unanticipated.”

Childermass shrugged, which raised and lowered Segundus' head in a way that made him snort with laughter. He leaned up and kissed Childermass on his coarse cheek. Having thus begun, he could not help but do it a second time, and a third, all the while gripping his hand tightly.

“John,” Childermass breathed, “Are you not... this is not very -”

“I do not care,” whispered Segundus. “At this moment, I do not care.”

The tension in Childermass eased and he settled a little more loosely against Segundus. He turned his head, offering his nose and forehead for kisses, which Segundus gladly bestowed. Only then did he tilt his head to kiss his lips, a soft, quick meeting of flesh. His eyes drifted closed and he kissed him again, lingering this time. Childermass pulled in a sharp breath and slipped a hand into his hair, tracing his fingers around the shell of his ear and igniting a fire in Segundus' belly. He fancied he could feel his desire surging in his veins, driving him to unexplored heights of recklessness.

“I am a guest in this house,” he said once he had reluctantly broken away from Childermass' wonderful mouth.

Childermass pulled back. “Aye,” he said thickly. “Aye, you should return to your party -”

Segundus cut Childermass off with a new kiss, holding his head firmly in place so that he could not make any more foolish suggestions. He nibbled at his lower lip, drawing a noise of soft surprise from Childermass, then said, “I have a  _room_ , sir. Upstairs. I am sure you can find it, even if I am presently quite lost.”

There was a look in Childermass' eyes that Segundus. caught up in the twin storms of drunkenness and arousal, could not read. Probably he could not read it at his most serious and sober. It was very complicated and included a darkening of the eyes and a moving of the throat that suggested he might speak, but he did not. Just as Segundus was about to suggest he find some  _other_  person to help him find his chamber Childermass nodded, a trifle frenzied, and stood up in such a rush that Segundus felt dizzy just watching him.

Childermass proved to be very competent indeed at finding Segundus' room, which Segundus told him as he pulled him inside. Childermass was also very good at bracing the door shut with the back of a chair and divesting himself of greatcoat, jacket and hat while Segundus lit the candles.

He turned around, smiling broadly, to find Childermass staring at him with such a blazing intensity that Segundus thought he might like to bury himself under the blankets to escape it.

“What is it?” he said, touching his hands to his face, half concerned about crumbs and his other half still determined to hide.

Childermass did not answer. He came towards Segundus like a fox stalking its prey: his feet light and his eyes determined. He did not make a sound until he had his goal – Segundus' jacket – under both hands and could stroke his palms up Segundus' chest. His fingers toyed with the collar, dipping to briefly brush against Segundus' throat before resuming their inspection of the fabric. Segundus let his eyes drift closed as Childermass' broad hands moved down his sleeves and then back up again, feeling out the whole shape of his arms. Every moment of touch felt as if it were filling in some empty part of Segundus, healing some hurt he had not even allowed himself to feel, and when Childermass slipped the jacket off Segundus' shoulders he gasped, for it was so sudden and complete a movement that he could not quite believe it had happened.

Next, Childermass made a very careful survey of Segundus' waistcoat, tracing the cream and gold stripes, running a fingertip down the long line of ivory buttons and finally resting both hands against Segundus' ribs, holding him just tightly enough to feel the rise and fall of his breathing.

“You are teasing me,” said Segundus, clenching his hands for want of something better to do with them.

“I am enjoying you,” Childermass growled. “But it you would prefer -”

He toppled Segundus back onto the bed with a quick push and was on him in the next instant, pinning him by his wrists and kissing him deeply, messily. Segundus moaned into it and thrust his hips upwards in search of contact, but Childermass was too far away.

For a moment Childermass paused. He lifted one of Segundus' hands and examined the scabbed remains of the injury made by the paring knife. He frowned at it, then kissed it softly. He slipped the finger into his mouth for one white-hot moment and then released it and bit at Segundus' ear instead.

“Please,” Segundus said, as Childermass kissed his chin and the small part of his throat that was not covered by his collar. “ _Please_.”

“If we had the time,” Childermass murmured into Segundus' ear, “I would do this properly. I would lay you out for me, peel away your layers until you were bare.”

Segundus whined and turned his head to seek out Childermass' lips, but Childermass was already gone, pressing kisses down Segundus' clothed body, his tongue darting out here and there to taste the fabric, which Segundus thought obscene and achingly beautiful. Childermass abandoned his wrists in favour of touching his shirt, his waistcoat. When he kissed at the falls of his breeches Segundus could not stop himself from arching upwards and crying out a little. Childermass looked up at him with a crooked,  _wicked_  smile then kissed again, a soft touch of his open mouth to the outline of Segundus' hard prick. His eyes drifted closed as Segundus watched, as if this was a rare treat or as if he, too, were being reduced to base sensation.

All at once he sat up and yanked at Segundus' breeches, getting them open in such a rush that it was a wonder he did not tear off any of the buttons. Once freed his cock stood up proud and eager, and Childermass paused briefly to hold it in his hand, all the while grinning at Segundus in that dreadfully knowing way. He sat up on his knees and pulled his own breeches open, which sight caused Segundus to writhe on the bed and gasp with unrestrained delight. Childermass lowered himself again, his hot gaze firmly locked with Segundus' as he slowly,  _slowly_ took his prick into his mouth.

Segundus' hand flew to his mouth to muffle the noises Childermass drew out of him with every determined bob of his head. He lathed Segundus' cockstand with his tongue, applied just the perfect scrape of teeth to make him gasp and paid a very particular attention to the head. Waves of pleasure crashed through Segundus so that he felt like a little boat cast adrift in a storm, a tiny thing that could so easily be overcome and yet, despite everything, remained afloat. When Childermass wrapped a hand around the base of his prick and began to pull in counterpoint to his mouth, Segundus' eyes flew open and he made a series of short, breathy moans. He fought hard not to thrust up into the glorious wet heat surrounding him.

He looked down, knowing he risked coming undone at the sight before him, but it was worth it: Childermass' cheeks were flushed and his face was creased in a slight frown. His mouth was stretched, wet and red, around Segundus' prick and when he moaned it sounded as if it came from a great distance, as if he wanted to resist making any noise but simply could not help himself. For a moment Segundus could not see where his other hand was, but when Childermass grunted and lurched forward a little it became clear that Childermass was pleasuring himself at the same time.

“John!” Segundus cried as he watched the fast back and forth of Childermass' hand. “Oh, John -!”

Childermass made a strangled sort of noise and took Segundus so deep as to have his nose buried in the hairs at his base.

His climax was inevitable, though he fought it valiantly for a few moments more. He was overwhelmed by thunderous pleasure, by the shuddering of his limbs and the deep clenching of every muscle in his body as he tumbled into paradise. Dimly, he heard a voice saying  _John John John_  but did not know to whom it belonged.

When his trembling faded he lay spent on the bed linen, gasping for breath and staring up at the ceiling. A moment passed before Childermass came into view, looking down on him with a gentler sort of smile about his lips. Segundus raised his hand to tease the trailing ends of Childermass' hair.

“Tell me what you want,” Segundus whispered, and was pleased he was capable of putting so many words together when his brain felt like so much porridge. “Anything. I promise.”

Childermass smiled and shook his head, and with a hot rush of pride Segundus realised that Childermass had come with Segundus' cock in his mouth. A deep, bitter-tasting kiss followed. Segundus clung to Childermass and wished that it did not ever have to end.

But end it did. Childermass rested his forehead in the crook of Segundus' neck, breathing heavily against the velvet of his collar. “If I could stay, John...”

Segundus gave a small sigh. “Will it always be this way?” he asked as his head fell back on the pillow. “Will you always be obliged to leave me? And I you?”

“I do not know,” said Childermass, looking up, and it seemed to Segundus he could read a very deep pain writ in the crevices of his face. “I cannot even say where my business will take me one month to the next. The situation at Hanover Square is... strained. At best. If I did not have to be there, you must believe -”

“I do,” smiled Segundus, who was full of wine and empty of reason. “It is just that it is very inconvenient to be in love with a man whose services are so in demand.”

There was a moment, a small, blissful moment, during which neither of them quite grasped what had been said, and it was like a perfect soap bubble hanging between them, beautiful in its fragility and doomed to collapse. Segundus felt a wash of cold go through him as it burst, as he realised what he had confessed without meaning to. He opened his mouth, perhaps to try and take it back, but it seemed he had used up his last supply of words.

Childermass, in the meantime, had gone very still. He ceased to meet Segundus' eye and was instead making an intense scrutiny of the pillow case. Segundus did not dare to break the silence and did not even move for fear of causing further offence.

“I am expected,” Childermass said at length.

Segundus was very strong, and did not make a sound as Childermass climbed off him and set about righting himself. He did not trust that he would not cry, or shout, or say more regrettable words, so silence was his only choice. He clung to it like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood.

When he had replaced his hat and overcoat, Childermass turned and spoke in a manner that suggested he had been planning his words for the preceding several minutes: “There are any number of things I cannot give you, John Segundus, though I would dearly like to. I did not ever mean to lead you into a blind alley, but now that we are here... only know that I am very sorry. Very sorry indeed, sir.”

He glanced back at Segundus, his face void of expression, then pulled the chair from the door and disappeared as silently as a cat over a wall.

Only then did Segundus allow himself to make a noise. He permitted himself one furious oath, which he hissed at the ceiling in lieu of smacking himself for his folly. Though he could not quite fathom how a single word could ruin so much, the evidence of its destructive power was laid plainly before him and could not be denied.

It occurred to him then that he was very cold. He curled himself into a ball, buried his face in the pillows and prayed for a swift and dreamless sleep. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With HUGE thanks to enchanted-oaks, ohveda and scrabble-wars on Tumblr for their brilliant help in dressing Mr Segundus for the party. Without them he would have been very poorly turned out indeed.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Of course, he did not get as he wished. He tossed and turned for most of the night, haunted by his own foolishness and the strange brightness of wine-induced dreams.

When the sharp light of morning finally woke him properly he was thick-headed and dry-mouthed. For a time he lay in his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin and his arms and legs tucked close together. He felt as if he had spent the whole night rolling down a hill in a barrel.

Damn John Childermass, he thought.

Segundus pressed his face into the pillow. He did not know what to do. He could not seek advice on this matter and feared his own judgement was so compromised as to be completely worthless. What he wanted, rightly or wrongly, was to storm the house on Hanover Square, seek out Childermass, take him by his lapels and _shake him_ until all his hidden truths fell out and he could not conceal himself any longer.

What he did instead was to drag himself out of bed and dress in his ordinary clothes, leaving his crumpled wedding suit thrown over the back of a chair and trying not to remember how reverently Childermass had touched that waistcoat, those sleeves.

His feet were heavy on the stairs as he descended to the morning room and, from the way Arabella smiled so knowingly at him as he took a seat at the table, he suspected his excesses were written quite plainly on his face. Some of them, at least.

“We were worried about you, Mr Segundus!” she said as she poured him a welcome cup of tea. “You vanished quite without a word. Miss Eustace was very disappointed not to wish you good-night.”

Segundus winced. He remembered the lady only dimly, as quite a lot of his memory of the previous night was taken up with endlessly replaying only a few burning moments.

“I am so sorry, Mrs Strange,” he said as he fiddled with his teacup. “I fear I made rather a spectacle of myself.”

“Nonsense,” said Arabella, still smiling and now passing him the toast rack. “You were very charming.”

Segundus helped himself to eggs and bacon and felt himself becoming more like a living person again with every mouthful.

“You must excuse Mr Strange, I am afraid,” Arabella said quite abruptly. “He is still very exhausted from the war.”

“Of course,” said Segundus. “It must have been a terrible ordeal for him. For both of you!”

“You are very understanding, sir.” There was a shade of sadness in her voice and there was something in her eyes that suggested she was seeing something very far away.

Segundus sipped his tea and thought about how much worse he would likely feel if anyone he should care for in any particular way had been shipped off abroad to be shot at. The very idea was so abhorrent to him that he went quite pale and it was then that he realised how very stupid he was being. Childermass was not on the continent, nor even a hundred miles away. All that stood between them were the barricades of their own construction. Would Arabella Strange sit so meekly by while fate conspired around her? No, he thought, she would do as much as she was able. He patted his mouth with his napkin.

He departed the house at ten, saying a fond good-bye to Mrs Strange. She held his hand and told him he was very welcome to stay another night, and was indeed welcome to visit in Shropshire when he had the time. Segundus thanked her, wished her good fortune, and went on his way.

It was a short enough walk through the teeming streets of London to find Mr Norrell's house that he barely had time to compose the speech he would make to Childermass when he arrived. He had got as far as outlining his general complaints when he was quite suddenly standing outside the house in question. It was a very large house, and it made Segundus feel very small to be looking up at it. This was a house of such symbolic importance. It was the home of English magic, the home of its First Magician. From this place came all orthodox magic in the country and into it flowed generals, Lords and politicians. Now to this house came John Segundus, who felt he was like the poor shepherd travelling to Bethlehem with his heart in his hands.

His heart hammered in his chest. He should turn around, he thought, turn around and catch the first mail coach north, devote himself wholly to magic and spend not another minute dwelling on the variables of fate. Instead, he remembered the look of loss in Arabella's eyes.

He sucked in a breath and knocked on the door.

It was opened by a young man in livery, who gave him a politely searching look. “Can I help you, sir?”

For a moment Segundus was too surprised at his own daring to reply, and then had to grope for the proper words. “I was wondering if Mr Childermass is in, at present?”

“Mr Childermass, sir?”

“We have some business to discuss,” he said, which was just true enough to keep him from blushing.

This seemed to appease the footman, whose expression brightened as he said, “Ah, of course! Come in, then, sir. He'll be expecting you, then?”

Segundus thought this quite unlikely, but said nothing and accepted the offer to cross the threshold.

The footman showed him through to a small parlour then left him to fetch Childermass. Panic was hot and tight in Segundus' chest and he could not sit without jostling his legs and could not stand without pacing up and down the room. It seemed like a small eternity before the door opened again and Segundus, who had come to an anxious halt near the window, spun around to see Childermass glowering at him.

“What are you doing here?” Childermass asked as he closed the door behind him.

For a brief moment Segundus quailed under the weight of Childermass' rage, but quickly reminded himself which of them had the greater right to anger.

“I came to see you, sir,” said Segundus. “I believe you owe me a debt.”

Childermass' expression darkened further. “I think you are mistaken.”

“Then you are wrong! I do not think it is unreasonable of me to request an explanation for your behaviour!”

Childermass continued to scowl at him.

“Do not look at me like that!” Segundus cried, “As if I am a fool! I may have done a great many foolish things, sir, but I have heretofore not counted this – _you_ – among them.”

There was no reply from Childermass, nor any discernible change in his expression.

“I have laid myself very bare to you,” Segundus continued, “In... more ways than was perhaps sensible. I believe I am entitled to something like reciprocity from you, sir!”

His nerve failed and he looked away, balling his hands into anxious fists.

“You should not have come here. I have told you: I cannot give you what you desire.”

Segundus forced himself to look up to meet Childermass' eyes, only to find that Childermass was not quite looking at _him_. His eyes were downcast and his hands were linked behind his back. It was the perfect affect of submission, of servitude, and the sight of it kicked the bottom out of Segundus' stomach. In the same moment he felt a flash of understanding, a sudden revelation that shifted everything into its proper alignment. Slowly, in the manner of one approaching a wounded animal, Segundus crossed the room.

 

“What do you think I desire?” he asked in a gentling voice. He was close enough to Childermass now that he would not have to reach very far to touch the buttons of his waistcoat.

Childermass still did not look at him. When he spoke it was as if the words were being dredged up from the bottom of the ocean. “I did not intend for it to go this far. I did not mean to make you...” He huffed out a frustrated sigh. “It is one thing, to enjoy your company, to carry on as we have done. But I cannot let you harbour feelings that may never be returned. You deserve more than that.”

Segundus laid the palm of one hand on Childermass' chest, not quite over his heart but near enough to make his intention plain.

“You should not have come here,” said Childermass, softly now.

“I did not mean to say what I did,” Segundus said. “But I do mean it. It is inconvenient indeed to be in love with you, for you are stubborn and convinced entirely by your own point of view. You think you cannot love me. Well, I say you are an ass.”

The beginnings of a smirk turned up one side of Childermass' mouth. “That is not very pretty talk.”

“I do not think you would appreciate pretty talk, John Childermass,” he replied. “You are an ass and you think yourself the final authority on all matters. You think if you say _I cannot love you_ then it must be true, because you are the one who said it. You think if you run from me I will not follow. You think you know what is best for me, what I want and what I deserve, because you are so used to handling a gentleman who cannot manage himself.

“Well, I have come to tell you that you are _wrong_ , sir, and an ass, and I will thank you to cease comparing me to Mr Norrell henceforth. And if you think me so flighty or false as to be unwilling to wait for you then you have not been paying anywhere near enough attention, which I will thank you to rectify -”

_Immediately_ , Segundus would have concluded, had Childermass not chosen that moment to cover his mouth in a kiss. It was brief, and perhaps the most chaste kiss they had ever shared, but it was enough to drag all the air out of him and leave him weak at the knees and light in the head.

Childermass cupped his face in both hands.

Segundus breathed, “You are also very rude.”

“Aye. So I've been told.” He kissed Segundus again. “Forgive me.”

“For what?” Segundus stroked his thumb over the knot of Childermass' cravat. “I will need specifics.”

Childermass sighed and rested their foreheads together. “Forgive me my rudeness. I should not have abandoned you. I did not want to leave you, only I knew I could not stay.”

“Why-ever not?”

“I do not understand it, not entirely. When I am near you it is... frightening, almost. As if I am standing on a precipice, with no way down but to fall. But I cannot fall, John. I cannot.”

“And staying is the same thing as falling, by your reckoning?”

Childermass nodded, his face the picture of misery.

Segundus touched the little fold of unhappiness between his eyebrows. “I suppose you shall simply have to trust me, that when you do choose to fall, I will be waiting to go with you.”

This time the kiss was not in the least bit chaste. Childermass nipped at Segundus' lips then parted them with a delicate touch of his tongue, a request for entrance to which Segundus happily acquiesced. For a time there was only that kiss, the meeting of lips, of tongue, the scrape of beard, the gentle caress of hands.

It was Childermas who pulled away, breathing a little quicker and saying, “This is very dangerous. We are not in the North now.”

“We were hardly in the North last night,” Segundus pointed out.

Childermass tilted his head in acknowledgement. “My judgement was clouded.”

“Oh, well, I have hardly been thinking clearly myself of late. We can each be forgiven for that, I think.”

Childermass looked at him with a very deep gaze. “There was more to it than the drink.”

It was not a question, so Segundus did not feel he should have to answer, but Childermass was still holding his head and would not let him look away.

“What else, John?”

A sudden rapping at the door caused them to break apart and spared Segundus having to explain his peculiar weaknesses. Childermass opened the door to the young footman.

“The master is asking for you, sir,” he said, a clear note of terror in his voice despite his best efforts to hide it. “He has been shut away all morning with Mr Lascelles. They are not... happy, sir.”

Segundus marked how Childermass fought his emotions, how he stood a little straighter then forcibly slouched. “Aye... Make up a tea tray, Lucas. Bring it along in ten minutes. I will see the gentleman out, then see to the master.”

Lucas nodded, bubbling over with gratitude, and fled the room with all speed.

“I must beg your forgiveness again, it seems,” said Childermass without turning around.

“No, indeed, I have disturbed you at your work. I would not do so, ordinarily, but you see -”

“I was an ass.”

Segundus laid a hand in the small of Childermass' back and smiked. “I will take myself out.”

“Not in this house you won't,” he said. He laughed quietly, a sound that featured less amusement than it did resignation, and took hold of Segundus' hand, pulling it around himself so that Segundus was drawn close up against his back. “You've as much right to the proper treatment as any of those who visit Mr Norrell. More, maybe.”

Segundus hid his smile in the rough fabric of Childermass' coat. After all too brief a time of this he pulled back far enough to murmur, “I will see you again soon.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It is the nature of our relationship, it seems. And since I have convinced you not to martyr yourself I am sure you will find your way back to me in due time.”

Childermass laughed properly. “As you say, John.” He brought Segundus' hand up so that he could drop a kiss onto his knuckles, then finally released him.

Childermass was as good as his word and walked Segundus to the entrance. Faintly, he could hear raised voices. An argument, or perhaps a debate that had raced out of control.

“A good day to you, sir,” said Childermass as he opened the front door.

“And to you,” Segundus said.

“Oh, I've no doubt of it.” Childermass smiled at him, a quick brightening of his whole face that was gone again in a moment. It was a secret thing, like the blooming of a rare flower, and Segundus clutched the memory of it to his heart.

He fell asleep on the coach back to Yorkshire, and for the first time in a very long time slept soundly, and was not disturbed by his dreams.

There were several surprises to greet him on his return. The first was that walking back into the house was like being caught in a sudden storm. The very air had the tang of electricity. He hurried straight through Mr Honeyfoot's cheerful welcome and to his office, determined that he would not be overpowered again. He grabbed a sprig of dried rosemary and tied around it a short length of red ribbon. He closed his eyes and muttered a little in Latin, hoping that he did not mangle the tenses too badly. A soft breeze stroked his face and he opened his eyes, gasping. The pressure of the storm receded and he staggered, grabbing hold of his desk for stability.

“Mr Segundus! Are you quite well?” said Mr Honeyfoot, who had followed him up and looked at him with wide eyes.

Segundus tucked his ward into his jacket pocket. “I am very well indeed,” he said, and though he had intended to tell Mr Honeyfoot all about the rosemary and the ribbon he found himself instead saying, “I have had a very enjoyable visit to the capital. How is the Lady?”

“Oh, no better, no worse,” said Mr Honeyfoot, “But I have someone to introduce to you, sir!”

The second surprise was Mrs Susan Granby, a widow from the village who was perhaps the single most matter-of-fact and unfanciful person in the whole of England. She wore a perpetual expression of mild disdain, and spoke to Segundus and indeed Mr Honeyfoot as if they were silly schoolboys who would eventually grow out of their strange notions about magic and become accountants. She tolerated them, but she did not hold truck with magic, faeries or superstitions and permitted no talk of such things in her presence.

“Gives the North a bad name!” she said as she turned over a huge lump of dough and continued kneading it with brutal hands. “And see what such notions have done to that poor girl? Aye, there's no good ever come from magic.”

“Where did you find her?” Segundus asked Mr Honeyfoot that night as they sat down to their first proper meal together in many weeks. It was a delicious beef stew, with vegetables that melted to nothing in the mouth.

“She rather found me,” said Mr Honeyfoot, beaming, “Or us, I should say. She was tired of hearing all the village girls share their horrors of this house and set out to prove them all to be weak-willed ninnies. Her words, of course.”

What a change came over Starecross in the next weeks! Mrs Granby kept the house in order, perhaps a touch aggressively, but it was a great improvement over the chaos of the preceding months. She took a keen interest in keeping his clothes mended, tutting at him as she did so, and had something of soft spot for Mr Honeyfoot, for whom she baked his favourite biscuits once a fortnight. She was also able to provide Lady Pole with a better standard of personal care, and though the Lady reserved her right to shout and refuse to be touched, when she did accept a measure of attention it seemed to relax her greatly.

All the while Segundus kept his ward tucked in his pocket, out of sight but never quite out of mind.

It was some time later, once the nights had drawn in close and the days were made of brittle winter sunlight, when Segundus fell asleep in the kitchen. It had been a taxing day: he had been negotiating with some local builders to get the roof over the back of the house mended and at the same time reading as much as he could of madness and its treatments. With one thing and another he had lost track of time, and ended up eating his supper cold after everyone else was snugly in their beds. He shucked his coat and jacket and kept up his reading as he ate, and after that until his vision swam. He set his book aside and closed his eyes for a moment, only intending to ease the burning in them.

When he opened them again he was scrunched up at his old desk at school. The Master was writing something indecipherable on the wall and the boys around him were scribbling furiously on their desks, making the wood glisten with ink. Segundus looked around, feeling horribly out of place for a moment until he saw Childermass leaning by the door at the back. He waved.

“Segundus!” shouted the Master. “What are you doing, boy?”

Segundus flinched and turned back to the front. “Sorry, sir. My friend came in, sir. I was saying hello.”

The Master snorted and all the rest of the boys giggled in unison. “You have no friends, Segundus!” the Master cried. “Every boy here knows that. Except you, it seems!”

Just at the point when Segundus might have despaired he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He looked up at Childermass, who was smiling warmly. “You needn't stay here,” he said, and the moment he did Segundus understood it to be true. He stood up from his desk.

He took a step forward and the schoolroom melted away, replaced with the rolling hills of the moors. It was snowing, but it was not cold.

“I thought I had the spell wrong,” said Childermass from behind him.

Segundus bent to scoop up handfuls of thick, powdery snow.

“No matter how often I tried it, I could not wake up in your dreams.”

“What a pity,” Segundus said. He patted the snow into a tight ball.

“Are... do you wish me to go?”

Segundus turned quickly and hurled the snowball at Childermass. It splattered against his coat and Segundus laughed, joyously. For a moment, Childermass looked down at himself in confusion, then slowly up at Segundus. A toothy, animal smile spread across his face and he launched himself after Segundus, who shrieked as he ran away. He made it only a little distance before Childermass caught hold of him and shoved a handful of freezing snow down the back of his jacket.

He lost his footing, then, and fell down on the soft cushion of snow, quickly followed by Childermass, and the pair of them threw snow at any part of the other they could reach until they were laughing too hard to lift their arms. Childermass buried his face in the crook of Segundus' neck, still laughing. Segundus tipped him over so that he could lean over Childermass and kiss his reddened nose.

As Childermass slid both hands down his thighs, Segundus felt suddenly overwhelmed, overawed by the snow and the moors and the man underneath him. And indeed he was a man and not a dream. Segundus could not exactly explain how he knew it, but it was a simple truth. This was Childermass, the real one, not a version of his own sad making.

“You couldn't have dreamed us a nice warm bed?”

Segundus shook his head and kissed Childermass' lips, which were warm and rough. “I like it here. I like you here.”

“Kiss me, then,” Childermass said, and Segundus thought that was a very fine idea indeed.

He was just getting down to the business of taking Childermass apart with his mouth when he heard a distant noise ring across the moors. He pulled back, causing Childermass to groan and paw at his waistcoat. The sound came again, louder and clearer.

“Someone is screaming!” Segundus cried, horrified.

In the next instant he was snapped violently out of his doze as someone howled, “ _Mr Segundus!_ ”

He leapt out of his seat and grabbed his coat, yanking it on as he sprinted towards Lady Pole's room.

The rest of the night was a blur of shouting and anxiety. Even after Lady Pole was settled back in her bed he felt rattled and disorientated. He did not return to sleep, though he would dearly have liked to. He was content to sit watch all night, watching Mr Honeyfoot slumber in his chair and listening to the quiet groaning of the house around him, alert for any sound from Lady Pole's room.

His dream, which had been very vivid and exquisite in its detail, troubled him. He had been very sure, at one point, that it had truly been a shared sleep, but now that he was awake he felt the teeth of doubt nibbling at him. Was Childermass now lying awake in his bed, jolted awake at the same time as Segundus? Had he used the same spell, or would they be able to compare their methods (an idea which caused him to feel a small frisson of excitement) at some point in the future? Had the dreaming, the  _magic_ , been the cause of the Lady's distress? There was far too much he did not know.

That night marked the beginning of a return to gloom at Starecross. The news of Arabella Strange's death, delivered almost a week later, was devastating. Segundus shut himself in his room for a few minutes and allowed himself to weep, for she had been a very lovely woman who did not deserve to have her life cut off in so heartless a fashion. It was unbearable to have to pull himself together and go on about his business, but he was relied upon, and so had no alternative.

There was a sense, then, of time unravelling, for after a long time of mundane work it seemed as if Starecross had burst into activity. Lady Pole was furious with her situation and berated them for not being able to help her, even as the two magicians worked on new theories, new possibilities. When it they finally hit upon the idea of faerie stories (or rather, human stories) it seemed to Segundus that they were on the verge of some great breakthrough and would soon rid the Lady of her madness.

That Vinculus should arrive at that same moment, Segundus would later reflect, bringing his own lunacy into their midst just as they drew close to understanding Lady Pole, felt like nothing so much as the punchline to some grand cosmic joke.

It seemed to Segundus that he now knew less than he had ever known. The burden of ignorance was so great that at times he felt as if he were being pressed into the ground by the heel of some huge boot and could see no means by which he might free himself or the friends trapped alongside him.

 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

 

Segundus collapsed in his chair in front of the fire, weary to his bones. He could hear Vinculus singing softly in his room, that same melody that went on and on without beginning or end. There were fragments of the song that were familiar, like a half-remembered lullaby, but for the most part it sounded like lilting nonsense. It scraped his nerves raw.

It had been a difficult several days, during which time he had hardly slept. Lady Pole had given up feigning indifference and had taken to voicing her grievances at every opportunity, though very often her words dissolved into one of her curious stories and there was no sense to be got from her. He discussed this at length with Mr Honeyfoot but even their combined efforts could produce no real solution. And all the while Vinculus laughed at him, called him _magician_ as if it were a dirty word, and sang his endless song.

“There will be no answer from Jonathan Strange,” said Mr Honeyfoot heavily. He sat down opposite Segundus and helped himself to a piece of fruitcake.

“No, indeed.” There had been no word of him from anyone following his wife's death. The papers were concerned only with the growing strength of the Johannites, who were confined to Newcastle for the most part. If the frantic tone of the papers was to be believed, one would think there was to be a civil war before teatime.

* * *

On the day of the publication of Mr Strange's great book of magic, Segundus was pulling weeds in the garden and humming a little as he worked.

“You sing his song,” said Lady Pole.

Segundus paused in his work and his humming, realising that he had, indeed, been singing Vinculus' awful melody. “I am sorry, my lady.”

He looked over his shoulder at Lady Pole, who frowned at him from her seat by the wall. “It is a foolish song,” she sniffed. “You do yourself a disservice to sing it.”

“I am afraid it is the only song left in my head,” he said with a little smile.

She sighed and tipped her head back. It was good for her to get some sun. Her skin was papery and pale, the result of too long spent shut away indoors during the winter months. It was not a terribly warm day, and she kept a woollen blanket wrapped around her shoulders, but the touch of even a weak sun showed up how sallow she had become, how her eyes had sunk into dark bruises.

“Do not look at me,” she snapped.

He looked back at the soil and the trowel in his hand.

“I have never enjoyed scrutiny,” she said. “No, that is not right. There was a small pocket of time when I was happy to be seen. When I was no longer dead, and thought I had been granted a marvellous reprieve. It was a lie, of course.”

“It saddens me to hear you talk so, my lady,” said Segundus. He scooped a dandelion out of the earth and deposited it in his bucket with the others. There were uses for dandelions, of course, but not in Lady Absalom's herb garden.

“You are always sad,” sighed Lady Pole. “It must be very tiring.”

“That is not so, my lady!”

“I wonder, would you call me Emma, if I asked?”

Segundus felt his cheeks flush pink and she must have seen, for she laughed.

“As I thought. You are far too proper, Mr Segundus.”

He blushed a deeper red. Not quite as proper as he might once have been, he thought, and had a sudden urge to shock the lady with tales of his exploits. He did not, of course, and instead busied himself with tugging another weed out of the soil.

* * *

Two days later both Mr Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot received empty parcels that had, presumably, once contained Mr Strange's book. It was a disappointment, to be sure. Whichever way he turned he was foxed by Mr Norrell.

He untied his parcel anyway, thinking he would save the brown paper for some other use. Folded inside he found a square of paper that had not suffered the same fate as the book. It was a little smudged and its edges were ragged.

Turning it over he discovered a short note: _Read it thoroughly, for I will hear your opinions at length_.

It was not signed, but he knew the writing of old. His heart fluttered in his chest and he damned Norrell thrice for good measure.

* * *

On the whole he thought he did an admirable job not thinking about Childermass. There might be entire hours when his mind did not even flit towards his image. Even when he did think of Childermass he was able to limit himself to conjuring only the remembrance of a smirk or the roll of his voice to keep him company when he was working alone. At all other times he was a true paragon, and did not permit his aching heart to overrule his better judgements.

The only exception he allowed himself was late at night, when all his other duties had been performed to the best of his ability and he was finally snug inside his own bed. Then he might well choose to dwell on the shape of Childermass' calves, the taste of his lips. He thought carefully about the light in his eyes and the fall of his hair. He might even spend a period of time remembering the perfect form of his naked body, how the muscles tensed and moved, how it felt to be weighed down by him.

These were very rare occurrences and he remained, on the whole, very good at not thinking about Childermass.

* * *

“You simply must!” Segundus cried, unaware that at that very moment Jonathan Strange was expending his last few minutes on English soil.

Vinculus crossed his arms and settled himself more comfortable on the bench in his cell. “There is no _must_ about it, Magician. I do not wish to do it. So I shall not.”

Segundus fought down the urge to stamp his feet or perhaps drag the madman bodily from his cell. “One must bathe, sir!” he said, “Or risk bringing a cloud upon the whole house.”

“I am perfectly clean,” said Vinculus, “And do not care to be bathed in your water. I will wash in a good stream when I am free.”

Segundus, who had spent the morning persuading Lady Pole to eat a little clear broth and the afternoon arguing with the mason over the repairs to the rear courtyard, had long since used his last reserve of patience.

“Very well! Do as you wish!” He slammed the door on Vinculus with perhaps more force than was necessary and stomped away with the madman's laughter ringing in his ears.

* * *

Stephen was a godsend. He was infinitely patient and kind with the lady, and extended the same treatment even to Vinculus. He brought the man his regular meals and bore his laughter and singing with far more grace than Segundus was able to muster.

The rose was still concerning, and when Segundus accidentally left his coat (and the ward contained within its interior pocket) over the back of his chair one morning he felt something else, something that made it hard to look at Stephen for fear of being blinded. It was like sunlight dancing too brightly on the surface of a still pond. He also noted with some alarm that there were vines growing up the walls and a strong smell of rotting leaves all around the house. Stephen very kindly returned his jacket to him and he felt these sensations wash away in a moment, and thereafter could not remember what exactly had plagued him so terribly for fifteen minutes in the early afternoon.

He was sitting with Lady Pole, telling her a frivolous story about the birth of his first nephew and how his brother had turned quite green at the sight of the wriggling infant, when Mr Honeyfoot burst into the room, red-faced and out of breath.

“Whatever is the matter?” Segundus cried as he leapt out of his seat.

“Vinculus!” he said, “He has vanished! And spirited Mr Black with him!”

“Will you excuse us, my Lady?”

Lady Pole turned her eyes heavenward and slumped back in her armchair.

* * *

In the years that followed Segundus would tell the story of his whereabouts when the mirrors of England broke to only three people: to Mr Honeyfoot, who came running at the sound of screaming from upstairs and so was witness to enough of the affair that Segundus was obliged to tell him the rest, to Lady Pole, who claimed it served him right for not heeding her advice on the subject of mirrors in the first place, and, much later, to Childermass, who did his best to hide his laughter by drawing deeply on his pipe.

It was his ill-fortune to be standing in front of his mirror at the time, stripped to the waist with his face thickly lathered in shaving soap. During his ablutions he did his best to ignore the creeping forest around the edges of his vision and to concentrate entirely on the application of his razor, so at first he dismissed the noises coming from the mirror as merely another element of whatever-it-was that haunted Starecross. He was beginning his shave, pressing his razor to his right cheek, when he heard the screaming of birds and leapt backwards in the second before his mirror splintered.

Glass shattered outwards and on instinct flung himself to the floor with an almighty shriek. He put his hands over his head to protect himself from the falling glass. His razor went skittering across the floor.

He heard Mr Honeyfoot pelting up the stairs and then, from the direction of his basin, the cawing of a raven.

“Mr Segundus!” Mr Honeyfoot cried as he threw open the door. “What on earth...”

He trailed off, his attention inevitably drawn to the broken mirror and the glossy bird hopping around Segundus' wash stand.

“Well,” said Mr Honeyfoot.

Segundus sat up, pressing a hand to his chest as he tried to calm his breathing. There was a tingling all across his skin and the taste of juniper in his mouth. The raven flapped its wings and shook its head.

“Magic,” Segundus sighed. “It's _everywhere_.”

He laughed quite loudly and fell sideways in a dead faint.

* * *

Magic had returned to England, and with it came a scent on the air like sweet berries and lightning.

“You are too romantic,” Lady Pole sighed, flopping back in her bed at the end of the day.

Segundus pulled the covers up over her and set to tucking in the corners. “I only say it because it is true, my lady. I feel it very keenly.”

“Take care it does not cause you to collapse again, Mr Segundus. You may do yourself some terrible damage.”

“My lady,” he chided softly.

“Or worse. Fainting is a grave weakness in a man, you know. You may end up in here with me.”

Segundus smiled and smoothed out the bedspread. “I am sure there are worse fates.”

“I am certain of it,” she said with a wry sort of look. Her expression turned suddenly grave. “You will be here when I wake?”

“Without doubt, my lady! There is no other place I would rather be.”

She softened. “I am glad of it.”

The next morning Mrs Granby informed him that the lady had slept through breakfast. When she was still not up by luncheon he went with Mr Honeyfoot to her chamber and there found her fast asleep, a letter from Jonathan Strange clutched in one hand. Once they had determined she would not wake, Segundus felt a great wash of disappointment in himself. He had been trusted with the lady's welfare and still she suffered. Worse still, there were thick tree roots growing up the walls of her chamber and curling around the posts of her bed. Magic grew all around her, holding her prisoner.

A long parade of physicians declared her a lost cause, for they could find no earthly reason why she should not wake. They managed to rouse her enough to drink some broth in the mornings and evenings but it could not sustain her.

The arrival of Sir Walter Pole was like the coming of the cavalry and Segundus felt certain a solution must be at hand. Emboldened by this feeling he found his voice to say:

“It is our belief, sir, that Lady Pole is not mad at all. We believe she is under an enchantment!”

It seemed to Segundus that he had always known that it was magic that ensnared the lady, but could not articulate it until he read it as plainly as it was put in Jonathan Strange's letter. He could not now imagine how they had not realised it!

Sir Walter seemed less impressed, swiftly declaring the whole notion poppycock and beginning arrangements with Stephen (miraculously well and restored to his master's side, to Segundus' relief) to have her ladyship removed to London to seek better medical attention. It was a bitter disappointment, to not be believed when they had finally found the truth at the heart of their predicament.

The hammering at the door knocked him out of his musings. He sneezed – the upstairs storage room where he was looking for Lady Pole's trunk was very dusty – and gave up his search. There were other trunks, if Sir Walter was in such a hurry. He was perhaps in something of a snit and endeavoured to breathe more deeply to avoid saying something regrettable to their newest visitor.

He heard shouting as he went down the stairs, and was about to make a very great fuss about the commotion when he was pulled up short by a vision of Childermass. This Childermass was a living stormcloud, a vortex of unhappy determination wrapped up in a swirling coat. For a moment Segundus' chest was so tight that he could not breathe and certainly could say nothing as Childermass swept by him with barely a glance. He could do nothing but stare, and then follow Mr Honeyfoot into Lady Pole's chamber with all speed.

Childermass went directly to Sir Walter, a small blue box of ornate design in his hands. The colour went out of Sir Walter at the sight of it, and Segundus was struck by the desire to know what was going on. He also longed to hold Childermass in his arms and smell the sweet moor air on his coat, but both these desires had to be quashed, for he was not at all in a position to demand satisfaction on either count.

He did not have long to stew upon the matter before the situation erupted into violence and shouting. He was quite swept along with it, grabbing Stephen roughly by the arm and doing his part to throw the man bodily into the cell.

When the door was locked he panted for air. His heart was racing. He glanced up at Childermass and found himself already under scrutiny. Childermass' eyes were huge and dark in his head and, oh, heaven save him, there was an awful, gory slice taken out of the side of his face! Segundus gasped at the sight of it and started towards him, reaching out with his palm to offer comfort.

“It is nothing, sir,” said Childermass gruffly, and he flinched from Segundus' touch.

Segundus blinked. He withdrew his hand as quickly as if he had been scalded, and well he might have been, for he felt hot all over.

Childermass turned and went back towards Lady Pole's chamber in a swirl of black fabric, Mr Honeyfoot close on his heels. Segundus lingered for a moment in the hallway, twisting his fingers together to distract himself from the knot of fear that tightened in his stomach.

From the cell behind him he heard the soft sound of Stephen weeping. He felt a lurch of shame, to have been so taken up with his own selfish worries. He leaned in to the cell door and spoke softly through the hatch:

“I am sorry it has come to this, Stephen. I know... I truly believe you did not mean to harm anyone.”

There was no reply.

When he returned to Lady Pole's room he found Childermass sitting on her bed, his head bowed as he spoke quietly to Sir Walter. Feeling himself rather out of place, a bystander in his own home, he hurried to sit beside Mr Honeyfoot.

“This is a most peculiar day, Mr Segundus,” Honeyfood sighed, and Segundus silently agreed. “Most peculiar.”

Childermass turned to them, then, and fixed them with his wild gaze. “We must save her,” he said, “Together. Come, magicians.”

Segundus leapt out of his seat, perhaps a touch too eagerly, and hurried to kneel beside the bed, but then he _was_ eager, to be part of this, to be necessary. Mr Honeyfoot was right behind him, so it was hardly a lonely impulse. As the three of them clustered beside the sleeping lady Childermass handed Segundus the blue box.e.

“We must make her whole again,” said Childermass.

The box contained Lady Pole's severed finger. Except it was not severed, for that word conjured up images of violent dismemberment, and this finger was in no way damaged. It was as if the lady's hand was made of wax and this finger had simply been sliced away. He shuddered a little to behold it, for though it was unblemished it still seemed to him an abhorrent thing, a gross violation of the lady's person kept as a trophy by whatever dreadful being had hold of her.

“It requires a spell,” he said, already racking his memory for something that would suit and trying not to be overly excited by the proposition of working as equals with the two dearest men of his acquaintance.

“What about Drake's Restoration of Flown Tranquility?” suggested Honeyfoot.

“No,” said Segundus, frowning. It must be physical, for all that the effects of the magic were wrought in the lady's mind. “Chauntlucet, perhaps? Or Martin Pale's Rectification...”

“Come along, gents!” Childermass snarled, standing from the bed in a burst of frustration. “We must know something to the point. We are all magicians and England is full of magic!”

“I do know one spell that might...” He spoke without thinking. He could feel the magic in the air, the magic coming off Childermass like the heat from a fire, from Lady Pole in a cloud of sweet smoke and even Mr Honeyfoot, whose magic was like the whisper of leaves against a windowpane. He could not sense his own magic, as one cannot see one's own eyes, but he knew it was there, whispering under his skin that he was ready.

Childermass looked down on him, his eyes like burning coals. “Do the magic,” he said, and his voice was ancient stone and thunder.

“Wait here a moment!” cried Segundus, who felt himself ignited with purpose. He leapt to his feet and ran as fast as his legs would take him to his office upstairs. He dug through his boxes of papers until he found it – a piece of paper so old and dirty that it could only be read by one who was so used to looking at it that his eyes naturally filled in those places that had been obscured by time and creases in the paper. His first spell. It had never before worked for him, but now... now things were different. He was different. And magic was all around him.

He ran back to Lady Pole's room and returned immediately to her side.

“Mr Segundus -” Mr Honeyfoot began, but the blood was roaring in Segundus' ears and he did not hear anything more.

He took the lady's finger carefully from the box and lined it up to her hand. He smoothed his paper out on the counterpane and took a steadying breath before beginning the recitation. His lips moved soundlessly around the words and he felt the rising tide if magic, of _power_ , his whole body was singing with it -

“Stop!”

His eyes snapped open and he trembled as he beheld Childermass in his fury. It was too late to turn back, the magic was begun and he did not know how to stop it! He looked down and watched in horrified fascination as the finger was reunited with the rest of Lady Pole, leaving no sign the two had ever been parted. Her hand twitched and the lady herself started awake, as if from a terrible nightmare.

It was rather unfortunate that Segundus wanted to do nothing so much as dance a merry jig, or kiss Childermass until they were both breathless, for either would have been very improper as Lady Pole vented her frustrations upon them. Segundus fell back a little, dazed by his success and feeling as if he might float away if he did not hang on very tightly to the back of a nearby chair.

“I must go,” Childermass said abruptly. He looked across the room to Segundus and added, “Take care of her,” before grabbing his hat and sweeping away without a backwards glance.

* * *

He did not want to wake up. His was the sweetest sleep, deep and void of any ill thoughts. It was very rude, to shake a man out of such a sleep.

The light was very bright, and he scrunched his eyes closed almost as soon as he had opened them. He groaned.

“There, now, Mr Segundus,” said a voice very close to his ear, “Come and join the rest of us.”

It did not hurt so much to open his eyes the second time. He discovered that he was lying on his back on the cold stone floor of the main hall, which was very undignified, so he attempted to right himself immediately. This turned out to be a terrible idea, for his brain had liquefied inside his skull and was sloshing about in a most sickening manner. He felt two hands catch hold of his arms.

“No need to rush,” said that same voice. “Only open your eyes for me, John.”

Segundus did as he was told. The first thing he saw properly was Childermass, who was crouched beside him and smiling. “You left,” said Segundus, attempting outrage. He was very tired, and so could only manage a quiet petulance.

“And I am come back.” Childermass was not smiling any longer. He squeezed Segundus' arms. “Do you remember the rest?”

Segundus blinked at him for a moment. “How long have you been gone?”

“Three hours,” said Childermass.

Well! That did not seem right at all. From the sludge of his mind Segundus could not assemble three minutes' worth of activity, never mind three hours! There was the vague recollection of an explosion, loud enough to rattle the windows in Lady Pole's chamber, and then a good deal of shouting and perhaps -

“Ravens?” he said, “I think I remember ravens.”

Childermass helped him to stand and then very soon after to sit in his chair by the fire. He made a small protest, for he was already beginning to feel better, but Childermass would hear none of it.

“I am glad the trees have gone,” said Segundus with a small shudder. “I feared they might get into the foundations, bring the whole house down on us! But they are gone. Even the smell of leaves.”

Childermass fixed him with a searching look, but did not comment. After a short while of sitting together he was called by Mr Honeyfoot to settle a dispute between the Poles, and he rolled his eyes and went, leaving Segundus to stay warm by the fire. Segundus could hear raised voices from Lady Pole's room, and was glad to be left out of it.

“I will not stay one hour more!” Lady Pole exclaimed as she strode into the hall. She was wearing what looked like one of Mr Honeyfoot's coats over her customary gown. “Ready the horses, Walter, or I will walk myself back to London!”

Walter followed after her with an air of extreme bewilderment. “Emma, my love -”

She stopped in her tracks and turned to glower at him. “I have done as you wished for a very long time. Now it is my turn to dictate and I say, _ready the horses_.”

In the end it was Childermass who called for Sir Walter's coachmen and arranged for the couple to be on their way back to London before sunset. Lady Pole thanked him stiffly and returned to pack her things.

“I wonder,” said Mr Honeyfoot, sitting down opposite Segundus in his customary seat, “I wonder if you would think very badly of me if I went with them?”

“To London, Mr Honeyfoot?” Segundus poured him a cup of the tea he had made whilst Childermass was out of the house and could not see him disobeying orders. His sickness had receded, and he felt quite his usual self again, though he still could not remember all that had come to pass. Mr Honeyfoot had filled in the broad strokes, but it was like hearing someone describe the plot of a novel, so that whilst he knew broadly what had happened he was certain he was missing a lot of important details. The only thing he knew with grim certainty was that Vinculus had been returned to Starecross in robust health, and had retired to the stables with two bottles of wine and a plate of Mrs Granby's best pastries. It was all very unsettling, but often the best recourse was simply to keep moving forwards until things made sense again, and Segundus had resolved to do exactly that.

“Aye, for a short time. I do not wish to abandon you...”

Segundus smiled. “I will not feel abandoned. You have been shut away here for too long, my friend. Enjoy a holiday.”

“You are very kind, sir,” said Mr Honeyfoot, patting Segundus on the knee. “And of course, I think the lady would appreciate a chaperone. For a little while, at least.”

Mr Honeyfoot needed only a few small things, which he packed swiftly and was soon ready to depart alongside the Poles. He promised he would stop in the village to inform Mrs Granby she could have the day off - Mr Honeyfoot did not like to think what would become of them all if she should encounter Vinculus unprepared. Segundus bid them all farewell at the door, then waved from the gate until the coach was out of sight down the lane.

How odd, he thought, that it should all end so abruptly after so long in purgatory. If he had not known what had transpired that day (or most of it, at least) he could easily mistake it for any other. The sun was sinking low, the ravens were cawing in their boisterous fashion, the air had the fresh tang of recent rain... it all seemed so ordinary on the surface. He laughed and the ravens shouted at him for disturbing their peace. He did not mind: his thoughts had turned at last to that other most unusual aspect of the day, and he turned away at last to go and find him.

Childermass was not in the main hall, nor in the kitchen. Segundus called him by name but there was no answer. He looked in the dining room and his office, even his bedroom, but found no sign of him. The cold fingers of fear were plucking at his heart when a thought occurred to him and he hurried down to Lady Pole's chamber, where he was greeted by a sight so charming and warming that his fears evaporated all at once.

There was Childermass, flat on his back on Lady Pole's bed, his limbs splayed as if he had simply collapsed without care for grace or dignity. His chest rose and fell with the slow rhythm of his breathing. Segundus' hands flew to his face, concealing his smile.

Segundus hated to rouse him, but he had not shed a stitch of clothing before falling asleep, and he would not get any decent rest like that. Segundus knelt down beside him and began the delicate business of removing Childermass' muddy gaiters, then his shoes. He set them neatly to one side before climbing up onto the bed beside him. Segundus stroked the hair out of his face and could not resist pressing a kiss to his forehead. Reluctantly, he said, “John?” just loud enough to be heard.

Childermass moaned as he woke. When his eyes focused on Segundus he smiled. “I am resting my eyes,” he said. His voice was even rougher than usual, and Segundus' toes curled to hear it.

“You fell asleep in your boots,” Segundus said, “Or I would have let you be.” As he spoke Segundus undid Childermass' cravat, thinking it must be very uncomfortable to sleep in so tied-up a fashion.

Childermass groaned and dragged himself upright long enough to wriggle free of his jacket and waistcoat before flopping back on to the bed. “Happy?” he said, in a manner that suggested he did not much care one way or the other.

Segundus looked at the exhausted man lying before him. He thought about faerie enchantments and magic, the smell of juniper and books that could never be read. He smiled.

Childermass raised a hand and slid it into Segundus' hair, pulling him down so that he could kiss him. It was a soft kiss, a trifle blurred, perhaps, as Childermass could not seem to focus himself to the task. He grew distracted by Segundus' hair, running it repeatedly through his fingers in a way that was very comforting.

“I have lost everything I had,” Childermass said. He kissed Segundus again, slow and tender. “And gained everything I wanted. As bargains go... it is fair.”

He pulled Segundus down beside him so that they were neatly entwined. There was not much bed left over but Segundus did not mind. He did not think he would mind if there was never any space between them again. With his head resting on Childermass' shoulder he could hear how his breathing deepened as he slipped back into sleep. It was possibly the most soothing sound he had ever heard, save perhaps the cradlesongs of childhood. It was so soothing that he was not far behind Childermass on the road to nod, which, he told himself with his last cogent thought of the day, was just as it ought to be.

* * *

He awoke with a kiss on his lips. He leaned up into it, gasping and seeking more contact, more heat. His hands came up of their own accord and found bare skin, warm and smooth.

“John,” Segundus whimpered, and then again, “John!”

He opened his eyes and indeed there was Childermass, his hair wild and his eyes wilder. He bent to kiss Segundus again, though it might be more accurate to say that he took Segundus' mouth and claimed it for his own. Segundus gasped at the intensity of it and Childermass pressed his advantage, slipping his tongue into Segundus' mouth for a brief exploration before withdrawing entirely. He thumbed rough circles on Segundus' cheeks.

“Is this a dream?” asked Segundus in a hoarse voice.

“No,” said Childermass roughly, “No, this is real. You have my word.”

This still might well be a dream, for it was as perfect a moment as he could ever wish for. Birds sung, sunlight streamed through the window and Segundus felt so happy he thought his heart might not be enough to contain it. He feared it might leak out in all directions. He wrapped his arms more tightly around Childermass to keep himself from floating away.

Childermas pulled back, looking down on him with a devastating fondness.

“You slept in your shoes,” Childermass informed him with a twist of a smile. “And your cravat. And much else besides.”

Segundus looked down at himself. “Then where did they all go?” he asked, for he was now dressed only in his shirt and breeches.

“I have had much more practice,” said Childermass with a wicked smile, “With those who fall asleep in their day clothes.”

Segundus dug his fingertips into Childermass' back. “I do not wish to think of you undressing other gentlemen,” he said, “I only wish to think about you.”

Childermass kissed him between his brows, which tickled and made him laugh. In return he traced the contours of Childermass' ribs. Childermass turned his head to kiss Segundus' neck. There was such a delightful slowness about it all, a lack of urgency that only made his blood run hotter.

“You must tell me everything that has happened,” Segundus said. “My memory of yesterday is all torn up, like paper. And there is much I never knew at all, I am sure.”

Childermass sighed against his neck. “Not now,” he whispered. “Not yet.” He kissed Segundus' neck again, then moved around, scraping his beard over the sensitive skin of his throat.

His hands took to wandering, running down Segundus' sides until he found the edge of his shirt and could slip both hands underneath. They were cool against Segundus' heated skin and his belly twitched under their delicate touch. What a joy it was, Segundus thought, to finally have the opportunity to act out all that he had so carefully not thought about in the previous months!

“Sit up.”

Segundus nodded and did just that, sitting up far enough for Childermass to be able to pull his shirt up over his head. Childermass then set about kissing Segundus anywhere that took his fancy, starting at his collarbones, then a shoulder, the flat of his sternum. He dipped his tongue briefly into Segundus' navel, which made him cry out in surprise, then moved up again, crawling over Segundus like a predator intent on devouring its prey. For all that, Segundus did not feel anything like a victim. He sighed and made little noises of encouragement whenever Childermass hit upon a particularly sensitive spot.

When Childermass licked Segundus' right nipple he let out a groan from somewhere deep inside him and fisted a hand in Childermass' hair. Childermass chuckled and did it again, the devil, then closed his mouth around it and sucked. The sensation of it shot through him like an arrow. Segundus pressed his head back against the pillow and gasped for air.

“You like that, then?”

All that he could do to answer was to nod. He felt as if there was nothing left in the world but this bed, this beautiful slice of time that was theirs alone. He fisted his hand in Childermass' hair and drew him back up to a kiss that was entirely composed of twining tongues. As they kissed Segundus used his other hand to feel out the bumps of Childermass' spine, following its long curve downward until he found the softer swell of his backside. Childermass gasped at this contact, broke the kiss and stared down at Segundus, who squeezed with his whole hand.

Childermass groaned and pushed back into it, though there was something like fear in his eyes.

“Tell me what you want,” Segundus whispered. “Anything. I will give you anything, John.”

For a moment Childermass was struck dumb. Then he carefully raised himself up on his knees. Segundus drank in the full expanse of him, how his muscles quivered with tension, how his skin was stained with a delicate flush, how his prick was so hard. Childermass grinned, as if he could read the direction of Segundus' thoughts, and rubbed his hands over the front of Segundus' breeches, making him whimper and thrust up into those hands. Childermass did not relent. Very carefully, very deliberately, he slipped open the buttons and, once this was completed to his satisfaction, yanked the trousers down Segundus' legs to leave him completely exposed on the bedsheets.

He returned to brace himself on all fours over Segundus, hands on either side of his shoulders, knees on either side of his hips. He nuzzled close to Segundus' ear and growled, “Turn over.”

Segundus surged up to devour his mouth for a short while before doing as he was bid. He settled with his arms around the pillow and his head turned to one side. Childermass pressed his head to the back of Segundus' shoulder and let out a huge, shivery sigh. For a long moment he did nothing else, and Segundus relaxed into his warmth.

Then he began to kiss again, starting at the nape of Segundus' neck and working downwards, paying brief homage to his shoulder blades before dotting wet kisses down Segundus' spine. His hair trailed after him, a maddening tickle over so much of his skin that he couldn't help but press his hips down against the sheets, seeking some focused relief to his aching arousal.

“You are beautiful,” Childermass said between the kisses he bestowed to the small of Segundus' back. “Do you know that? It is true. I have long been afraid I would lose you, for you are beautiful and kind and I could not give you what you deserve.”

Segundus buried his face in the pillow to smother the emotions that rose up in him.

The next kiss fell lower, at the top of his cleft. “I have worked very hard for these past twenty four years,” Childermass said, “And now it is over. That chapter, at least. Everything I was, everything I knew is gone. Except for you.” He paused, then added, “And Vinculus, I suppose.”

“Please!” Segundus cried in outrage, “Do not speak of him! And do not _stop_ , John!”

Childermass laughed against Segundus' buttock and then bit down lightly into that soft flesh. At the same time he stroked his thumb in gentle circles around the bump of his tail bone. As he lathed the bite with his tongue his thumb began to quest down, and Segundus' breath quickened as he felt the sparks of sensation all through his body, coalescing in his prick and making him jerk forwards.

“I never thought to have you again after that first day,” said Childermass. He stroked his thumb in idle circles around Segundus' entrance. “All I wanted was a little distraction from being who I was. A little reprieve. And what did I get? A very _large_ distraction. A gentleman who did not seem to notice that I was a servant, or did not care. A man who would rejoice in my magic and visit my dreams.”

Segundus reached back and found Childermass' arm, which he gripped for all he was worth. “You... you broke into my _kitchen_. And you are not the only one who has been -”

At that exact moment Childermass kissed Segundus' entrance, and he found himself so overwhelmed that he could not remember what he had meant to say next, and instead only gasped into the pillow. It was a thoroughly confusing sensation, wonderful and alarming all at once. Childermass did not stop at one kiss: he spread Segundus' buttocks so that he might have better access, kissing all of his most soft and secret skin. He groaned, and Segundus felt it vibrate against him. He licked a wide path over his hole and Segundus shouted into the pillow, fisted his hands in the sheets and would have traded away his very soul to make him do it again.

It did not come to that, thankfully, for Childermass seemed very content to continue in this fashion for several long minutes, during which time Segundus was reduced from man to liquid, or perhaps a being of pure light. He did not know which, and did not have the faculties remaining to sort it all out. He was aware, somehow, that he was making noise, soft little moans and helpless cries as Childermass went about his work. When Childermass pressed inside, wetting him and stroking him with his wicked tongue, Segundus made a very loud, broken sort of noise that he had never heard from himself before. He wondered if it was possible to expire from too much pleasure.

And then all at once, Childermass withdrew. Segundus whimpered and thrust himself against the bedsheets. He could hear Childermass panting behind him, and then … was he _spitting?_ Segundus turned to see what exactly Childermass was up to. The sight of his lover rubbing his hand over his prick was enough to rob him of his breath again. He grinned, and raised his arse up, for he knew what Childermass was about and was very much in favour of the idea.

Childermass leaned down over him and kissed him – it was an awkward angle, granted, but it was a kiss of such depth of feeling that Segundus might have chosen it over all other kisses, had he been asked to make such a choice.

With his free hand he lined up the head of his prick with Segundus' relaxed opening and said, “Tell me you want it.”

“Yes!” cried Segundus, “Of course I do! I have waited a very long time for -”

Again he was cut off, this time by the sudden intrusion of Childermass into his body. There was a dull, burning pain and tears sprung up unbidden at his eyes, but as Childermass kept on the pain gave way to coarse pleasure and he groaned with it, pushed into it, demanded more with the language of his body. Childermass obliged him, thrusting into him first shallowly, then working deeper and deeper still until he was fully seated within.

“Oh, John,” said Segundus, turning his head fretfully from side to side, “I want to see you. I want to see your face, what you look like -”

Childermass pulled back almost entirely, lifting Segundus' hips with him so that when he thrust back the angle was much improved and Segundus cried out as a wave of the most delirious pleasure went through him, starting at that deep point inside him and ending in the tips of his fingers and the roots of his hair. He made a noise not unlike a sob and begged Childermass to do it again, and again, to not stop for anything, or Segundus would be so _furious_...

He could hear Childermass grunting, could feel how the strength of his movements caused the whole bed to shake. It was intoxicating, to be the focus of so much power, to be the inspiration for it – oh, God! His crisis came as if from nowhere, a flash of light behind his eyes and a sudden feeling as if he were falling from a great height. He shouted through it, exulted in it, and then collapsed quite prone upon limbs turned, as if by magic, into blancmange.

“Oh!” cried Childermass, and then, “John!” and he took up a fast, desperate rate of thrusting, subjecting Segundus to fluttering little shocks of pleasure, one following the other too fast to count them out, and then came with a final groan and a hard press into Segundus as far as he could go.

When he had softened somewhat, Childermass pulled himself away and curled up, drowsy and pliable, with Segundus in his arms.

“I think I could lie here forever,” Segundus said. Sleep played around the edges of his words.

Before Childermass could reply his stomach spoke for him in a long snarl of unhappiness.

“Ah,” said Segundus. “Well. Perhaps a spot of breakfast, first.”

Childermass kissed the nape of his neck, and Segundus could feel the shape of his smile against his skin. “Aye,” he said softly, “One thing at a time.”

 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

 

Their plans for a quiet breakfast were thwarted quite spectacularly by Viculus, who had apparently been awake for some hours and helped himself to the house's supply of bread, cured ham and fruitcake to make a heaped plate of the most unlikely breakfast Segundus had ever seen. A cup of tea steamed gently on the table beside him.

“Good morning, magicians,” Vinculus said, grinning at them with his crooked teeth. “There's tea in the pot.”

Childermass made a low noise, much like a horse displeased by a fly, and went about pouring two cups of tea.

Segundus did not quite know how to comport himself in present company, and so set himself to making a proper breakfast of porridge. He was glad he and Childermass had dressed, for he would not have liked to be confronted with Vinculus' lewd grin in any more compromising a condition. As it was he felt certain that he was still glowing with the last remnants of his arousal.

“Do not let my presence put a damper on anything, magicians,” said Vinculus sweetly. “I am as the morning mist, incorporeal and soon to vanish.”

“You'll go nowhere,” Childermass said as he put the tea on the table and sat down opposite Vinculus, the better to glower at him. “Not without my say so.”

“You do not own me. I have but one master, and he does not much care to tell me what to do.”

“He does not much care whether you hang from the neck, either.”

Segundus, holding a bowl of porridge in each hand, stopped beside the table. “What do you mean?”

With a hoarse laugh Vinculus picked up his plate and left it beside the sink. “You shall have to ask him,” he said with a not towards Childermass, “For he knows much more of the matter than I. It is very easy, to be dead, but not so easy to speak of it afterwards.”

“Do not go far,” Childermass said to him as he made for the door. “We have business together.”

“I intend to find some flowers to smell,” he said, waving a hand expansively, “And some decent beer to drink. Perhaps some sweet company to share a workaday conversation. When I have had my fill I will come back. I shall be a book every other day of my life, John Childermass. Today I am a man.”

With an elaborate bow he departed by the back door and was all but skipping as he headed for the open moors.

 

“I apologise for him,” said Childermass wearily. “He is... I do not rightly know. But I am stuck with him.”

Segundus finally set down a bowl of porridge for each of them. “I must admit I understood … not even half of all that,” he said, smiling a little ruefully.

With a shrug, Childermass spooned up a generous helping of honey and swirled it over the dense surface of his breakfast. “I don't know how much I understand myself,” he said, before beginning to eat at a furious speed.

Segundus was not halfway through his portion before Childermass had polished his off and started in on the fruitcake. He drained three cups of tea in the same period, which Segundus learned he took black and drank without apparent care for its temperature.

With a long sigh Childermass began studiously licking the cake crumbs off his fingers. He caught Segundus watching him and slowed his movements, drawing his thumb out of his mouth in a very suggestive manner indeed.

Segundus felt his throat go dry and hastily sipped some tea to compensate. He wanted to say something, but found that his supply of conversation had dried up, too.

For a long few minutes Childermass studied him, and for all that time Segundus felt the heat creep higher on his face. It was as if a wire was being pulled taught between them, a wire which might snap at any moment and do them both some terrible injury.

“Are you feeling better?” Segundus asked, though it felt like a very foolish thing to say.

“Much,” said Childermass. “You?”

“Mmm,” said Segundus, nodding.

There fell between them a silence, then, of the kind that Segundus could not remember experiencing before. He found he did not know what to say, or even if it was appropriate to say anything at all. His book had never gone into this sort of detail; after all it was not intended as a manual to all aspects of romantic life, only one very particular area. They had so rarely been at leisure to simply talk, he did not quite know where to begin. What did one say to one's lover over the breakfast table? Was one expected to compose sonnets? Segundus had never been very good at poetry. He enjoyed the sentiment but too often got tied up in counting syllables and could never conceive of any decent rhymes.

“What are you thinking, John?”

Startled, Segundus shook himself out of his thoughts. Childermass was watching him with a quietly curious expression. “N-nothing of note,” Segundus said, stammering a little in his embarrassment.

 

“I myself was wondering if you had any further recollection of yesterday's events.”

“No, indeed,” Segundus admitted, though it pained him a little to do so.

“Perhaps it is for the best,” Childermass said.

“I dreamed that I could not speak,” Segundus said, struck by a sudden recollection. It had not been a very troubling dream, and indeed he might have forgotten it entirely had he not been sifting through his memory for any recent additions. “Mr Honeyfoot suggested... that is, he told me there were certain curses placed upon us, but would not speak of their nature exactly. He was very shaken.”

Childermass nodded and stared at the surface of the table as if it had done him some deep harm. “I am very sorry I was not... that is, I had no notion such a thing might happen.”

A little flower of happiness bloomed in Segundus' breast. He reached across the table and touched Childermass' weathered fingers with his own. “There is no lasting damage.” He looked up at the cut on Childermass' face, already scabbed over but still a startling reminder of all that had happened. “Not to me.”

“It is nothing,” said Childermass gruffly, seeing where Segundus' attention was fixed. “It looked worse than it was.”

“Who did it to you?”

“It does not matter.” Childermass turned Segundus hand so that it lay on the table. He traced his forefinger along the fine lines of Segundus' palm.

“We have both been somewhat through the wars,” Segundus said, his voice barely above a whisper. There was some fragile quality about the air he did not wish to disturb.

It seemed Childermass had no such intuition, for he coughed and stood up quite suddenly, scraping back his chair and snatching his hand away.

“I have some correspondence to see to,” he said, and was out of the kitchen before Segundus had finished blinking in surprise.

All the rest of the day Childermass contrived to avoid staying long in the same room as Segundus. At first Segundus thought it only prudent to give the man his space, considering all that he had been through of late. Segundus occupied himself with cleaning the breakfast dishes and making the bed in the downstairs bedroom, blushing a little to behold the tangled sheets and discarded clothes that were the remnants of their evening activities.

He sought out Childermass around noon, thinking he might prepare a little cheese and bread for them to share, but could not find him. A small spark of fear kindled in his chest: fear that Childermass had left swiftly followed by fear that he had been taken. He squashed it rather savagely and after a brief consideration headed off in the direction of the library.

Childermass was not there, but there was ample evidence of his having spent a considerable amount of time among Starecross' meagre collection. Books were scattered about, some piled in a rough sort of order, others left open at particular pages. There was Childermass' jacket, left on the back of a chair and suggesting that he had not gone too far away.

Fighting a mild annoyance that he was still struggling to lay hands on his lover even now, Segundus continued through the house until he came to his little office and found Childermass hunched at the desk, scribbling furiously on paper and getting ink all over his hands. There was a grim set to his features and a wildness about his hair and eyes that Segundus did not like.

“John,” he said from the doorway. Childermass did not react, so he spoke more loudly: “John? John Childermass!”

It was his last name that halted the scraping of his pen. He looked up at Segundus in surprise.

“I am sure it can wait,” Segundus said softly, “Whatever it is.”

Childermass gripped his pen tighter and looked down at the page. “I must ascertain what became of them.” His voice was so small that it might have been lost, had Segundus' office not been so pleasantly tight a space.

Segundus felt a wave of warm understanding and nodded. “Of course. Please, finish your work. I will be back for you in half an hour.”

The terrible scraping of pen on parchment began again, and Segundus hurried from the room before he gave in to his instincts and dragged Childermass into a crushing hug. Such a demonstration of feeling would not be welcomed, he surmised, and though he did not much like leaving Childermass as he was, but there was a better idea blossoming in his mind.

It took him the best part of an hour to set up the bath. There was a good deal of necessary back-and-forth from the kitchen to Lady Pole's room as he heated water, stoked the fire and made a quick concoction of lavender oil and thyme to enliven the steam. By the time he was done he had rolled up his shirt sleeves and was quite red-cheeked with exertion. With a determined set to his shoulders he returned to his office.

Childermass had written up a stack of letters and was deeply engrossed in yet another when Segundus knocked lightly at the open door.

“I will be a few minutes more,” he said, dipping his pen anew and getting ink spots all over the page.

“John,” sighed Segundus, stepping across the room to lay his hand lightly on Childermass' shoulder.

Childermass seemed to become stuck in place, holding his pen an inch away from the paper so that it dripped a small pool of black ink over his letter.

“Come with me.”

For a long moment he did not move. The two of them watched as the ink spread out, obliterating whatever work Childermass had begun under a slow, sure tide of black. At length he nodded, and with a small shudder relaxed his grip on the pen and rose from the desk. Segundus linked him by the arm and brought him down from the study as one might lead a partner to a dance. Childermass tolerated this touch, though he had enough of his wits left about him to quirk an eyebrow before acquiescing.

Segundus did not pause for explanations as they entered Lady Pole's room. Childermass made a brief noise of surprise which Segundus quieted with a quick kiss to his lips. “I wish to take care of you,” he confessed in a whisper. “Will you permit me?”

Despite adopting an expression of grim resignation Childermass nodded, and Segundus set about removing his clothes. His hands trembled somewhat as he reached for Childermass' shirt, but he was enough in control of himself to pull it off over in a smooth motion. When Segundus went for the buttons on his breeches Childermas made a soft noise and caught his hands.

Squeezing them and sighing at the same time he said, “I do not know how to be different.”

Segundus, feeling immediately as if this was a conclusion drawn from a long conversation to which he had not been party, only leaned up to kiss Childermass once more on his downturned lips. “I have only asked you to take a bath,” he said, speaking carefully and stroking Childermass' shoulder with light fingers. “One thing at a time.”

He drew Childermass with him until he was level with the bath, and watched with a certain enjoyment as he removed his own breeches. He had foregone underthings in their sloppy dressing and so was rendered nude in short order. He stood beside the bath, looking a little lost but also somewhat defiant, as if this were some challenge he was expected to overcome. Segundus gestured to the steaming surface of the water and Childermass nodded curtly, drew a sharp breath and got in. He sank down until he was seated against the raised back of the tub with his arms resting on the rim and his entire body held stiff as if ready to leap right back out again as soon as possible.

“You are not caught in a trap,” Segundus reminded him as he sat on a little footstool he had placed between the bath and the fire for this very purpose. “I am no longer a gaoler.”

Childermass set his jaw.

Segundus smiled to see this odd recalictrance and took up his washcloth and a bar of soap and began a gentle application of each to Childermass' nearest shoulder. He moved across the back of Childermass' neck, digging in a little to those places where anxiety had drawn his body up tight. Childermass grunted quietly as Segundus hit a particularly tender spot. As Segundus gently washed his upper arms his head fell forwards, and Segundus worked down towards his hands with gentle certainty. He felt very privileged to watch the flow of suds across Childermass' skin, how the water made him gleam in the firelight. How many people, he wondered, had ever had such good fortune?

He continued in his careful attentions until Childermass finally let out a soft breath. As it left him, so too did the greater part of the tension in his body. His head fell back and his mouth opened a small way and he began to breathe so deeply and quietly that Segundus might have thought he was asleep were it not that he watched everything Segundus did through barely-open eyes.

Segundus lifted each of Childermass' feet out of the water in turn, washing them carefully then digging his fingers into the arches and drawing out sharp noises of encouragement that went to his prick with alarming accuracy. He made a determined effort to ignore his building arousal and returned to the top of the bath where he slowly raked his wet fingers through Childermass' hair.

“Mmm.”

“Do you like that?” Segundus asked quietly, though the scholar in him knew he already had ample evidence to confirm his hypothesis.

“Mmm,” Childermass said, a smile turning up one side of his mouth.

“Would you let me wash it for you?”

There was a momentary quiet, and Segundus feared he had blundered across some invisible line, entered some deadly territory from which there could be no return, until Childermass looked up at him with the endless black of his eyes. He nodded so minutely that Segundus thought it a figment of his hopeful mind until Childermass reached up for one of his hands, brought it to his lips and kissed his knuckles.

“Do not use much soap,” he said in a low grumble, “Unless you prefer me to resemble a sheepdog, of course.”

Segundus could not help the giggle that rose through him at the thought of it, and Childermass flicked water at him in retaliation. Segundus leant down and kissed him, soft and wet. Childermass opened to him as Segundus deepened the kiss just long enough to make them both hazy with it.

“I will be very kind to your hair,” he promised, breaking the kiss to reach for a jug of freshly warmed water.

“You are always very kind,” said Childermass in an indistinct voice, “To every part of me.”

Segundus continued in his kindness as he washed Childermass' hair, taking care to wet it thoroughly and soap it lightly. As he worked his fingers into his scalp, reducing Childermass to quivers and sighs, he judged the moment to finally be right to ask, “What happened, John? At the Abbey?”

At first there was no reply, but Segundus did not let his worry him overly and simply continued in his loving ministrations. The answer came haltingly at first, then seemed to take root as Childermass grew used to the notion of giving voice to his inmost thoughts. He spoke of his last journey with Norrell, how he knew they were moving towards an ending he was powerless to prevent. His voice cracked when he described his parting with his master, for he had sincerely believed there would be an opportunity for reconciliation once Norrell had returned to his senses. It was Lascelles who had cut him, and Segundus felt a surge of hot anger, an indignation on Childermass' behalf. Childermass smiled and said there was no need for outrage: Lascelles was gone, according to his cards, and it would do neither of them any good to let their feelings fester.

As Segundus rinsed his hair Childermass related the story of how he had saved Vinculus from a hanging, though it seemed to Segundus that it was an incomplete tale. He pressed for details only lightly, for Childermass seemed easily confused on the topic. Much like himself, he thought, when he tried to remember all that had happened at Starecross the previous day.

Finally Childermass told him how he had witnessed the disappearance of the whole of Hurtfew Abbey. He addressed this part of the story to some distant point in front of him and Segundus could not help but imagine his devastation, his aching loss. He knew what it was to lose family and wished that he could extract that pain, bottle it, perhaps, and keep it in a dark cellar where none would ever have to feel such agony again.

He left Childermass' hair to dry in the warm air and turned his attentions, finally, to his hands. He washed them very thoroughly, though not without tenderness, taking special care to remove as much as he could of the ink that he had splashed all over them in his frenzy of work.

“There,” he said at last, releasing his hand and putting the cloth over a rail by the fire.

Childermass looked at his hands and then flicked his gaze to Segundus. “Am I acceptable?”

“Oh, I would not go so far,” he replied, smiling. “Let us call you _tolerable_.”

He stood and fetched a warmed bath sheet, which he held out so that Childermass could wrap himself in it directly as he stood out of the bath.

Childermass took a handful of Segundus' shirt in one of his newly-clean hands and pulled him close, burying his face in the crook of Segundus' neck. The smell of him – lavender and soap, clean cotton and skin – made Segundus' breath hitch and brought all his arousal surging back into him. Segundus held him close, and wished never to be parted from this embrace. For a time they were quite comfortable to simply stand as they were, still and entwined, until Childermass let loose a sound that was something like a sob, though Segundus would not ever think to interrogate its true origin.

Segundus held him tighter, then turned his head to whisper: “Come to bed.”

Childermass nodded and allowed himself to be steered back to the bed where he lay down, still wrapped in his bath sheet and smiling in an unfocused but very happy sort of fashion. Lying down behind him, Segundus gathered his pliable body in his arms. He stroked the back of Childermass' neck, warm and damp under his wet hair, then followed his touch with a kiss. Childermas shuddered a little but pushed towards him, not away, which Segundus took as tacit permission.

He trailed his fingertips down Childermass' bare arm, enjoying the varying textures of his skin and noting where it was soft, where it was roughened, where the hair grew thicker and where his joints protruded in pleasing bumps. At the end of his hand's long journey he laced their fingers together and for a moment held them, forming a place of permanent connection between them.

Childermass mumbled something, too quiet and garbled by relaxation to be made out.

Leaning half over him Segundus asked what he had said.

“I want you,” Childermass said, though his words were still a little slurred.

“You have me,” Segundus whispered. He slid his hand around Childermass' waist, pressed the whole span of his palm to his navel. “I imagine you would have to work very hard to get rid of me.”

With an unhappy noise Childermass turned on his back and pulled Segundus down for a kiss. It was not like the other kisses they had shared, for it was wholly unhurried. Segundus gave himself over to it, let himself drown in the fathomless waters of his affection for this man.

They kissed until they were gasping into each other's mouths, licking each other open and caring little for how long they spent in this endeavour. Segundus had moved to straddle Childermass, a knee on either side of his hips and his elbows either side of his head. His fingers occupied themselves in running through Childermass' hair, feeling its changing texture as it dried. Childermass let his hands rove over Segundus' back, sometimes tugging at the fabric of his shirt as if he might want to remove it, but largely touching only for the sake of touch.

Childermass ended the kiss and brought both his hands up to frame Segundus' face. He wore a very serious expression, for all that his eyes were black with arousal.

“I want you,” he said again, more clearly now, and with a touch of the declamatory, as if he had decided that this thing must be said, and would not allow himself to fail in saying it. “I want you to have me, John.”

Segundus could not help but stare. He did not ask if Childermass was sure: he was certain enough of his lover's character to know that he would not give voice to idle thoughts, nor say things simply for the sake of flattery. Segundus did not want to be flattered, in any case. All he wanted was what he had before him, which was an entirely satisfactory state of affairs.

“Have I shocked you? Or do you not wish -”

Segundus cut off that quick bloom of doubt with a sharp, needful kiss. Childermass grunted below him and sucked on Segundus' tongue. Segundus pressed his hips down, letting Childermass feel how much he did indeed want whatever Childermass would like to give him.

Sitting up a small way, he stripped Childermass of his dampened bath sheet and for the span of a few minutes simply looked. The light of the day was already past its best, leaving the room illuminated in the main by the dancing glow of the fire. Cast in fiery orange on side and the watery blue of twilight on the other, Segundus fancied he looked like a fantastical creature, some denizen of faerie come to ruin mortal souls with his dark eyes and wicked tongue.

“You are beautiful,” he said in a voice made hoarse by his excitement.

A slow frown went across Childermass' face, accompanied by a huffed out, humourless laugh. His hands slid down to Segundus' waist and he looked away slightly, his attention drifting to Segundus' ear, or perhaps the ceiling beyond.

Segundus leant down to mouth at Childermass, starting at the rough stubble of his chin and then kissing in a lazy line down the middle of him. He paused at his chest to kiss a rosy nipple, which made Childermass gasp and twitch towards him. Emboldened, Segundus took the little nub into his mouth and sucked. Childermass said something breathless and garbled, so Segundus did the same to the other nipple, then lathed his tongue over them each in turn. It was a heady thing, to have Childermass laid out for his whims, accepting whatever pleasure Segundus saw fit to bestow. He very much wanted to give Childermass all the pleasure he could muster, and in so doing convince him that he was indeed beautiful, at least as far as John Segundus was concerned.

With a certain reluctance he resumed his journey south, kissing ribs, belly, hipbone. It was with even greater reluctance that he slid off the end of the bed, leaving him to keen softly as Segundus scurried to the side of the bath, where he had stowed the lavender oil. He felt himself blush furiously as he picked it up and returned to the bed, where he threw it down gently before wrestling out of his clothes. When he pulled his shirt off over his head he saw Childermass, propped up on his elbows, watching this artless demonstration with heavy eyes and that very serious expression. Segundus felt all at once very shy, and crossed his arms over his naked body, though this action concealed very little.

“Do not hide from me,” Childermass said, his voice as serious as his face.

Slowly, Segundus let his arms fall to his sides, and watched as Childermass raked him up and down with his eyes. Childermass shifted, spreading his legs apart so that he was entirely exposed, and Segundus felt his breath hitch before he rushed forwards, bracing himself over Childermass and kissing him hungrily. Childermass laid his fingers lightly around Segundus' head, cradling rather than gripping, and they sighed to be rejoined.

After a little more of this kissing Segundus was surprised to feel something cold pressed against his chest. He looked down and saw the glass bottle of oil, which Childermass was holding tight to his skin.

Childermass swallowed. “Will you?”

Segundus thrust down – he could not help himself – so that they pricks aligned and they could each enjoy some much-needed friction. Segundus took the bottle from Childermass in a trembling hand, but he nodded. He would, of course he would!

“We may have to put the sheets at risk,” Childermass said, smoothing his hands down Segundus' back, stroking briefly across his buttocks. “The oil may stain. If you would rather...”

Segundus shook his head rapidly; he found that in his present condition he cared for very little that did not take the warm and splendid shape of Childermass and was prepared to sacrifice any amount of bedding to have him. It was this thought, the thought of having Childermass in that most complete and illicit way, that set off a small wave of panic in his chest. He did not know what to do! He had experienced the reverse, of course, and enjoyed himself immensely, but he had been too lost in his own pleasure to study how Childermass had gone about it in any detail. He might very well hurt Childermass, or be in some significant way boorish or disagreeable without even knowing it!

“John?”

Childermass touched his face and Segundus became aware that he had ceased all movements. There was a buzz of anxiety in his head, which he shook to try and clear it.

“It is alright, John,” said Childermass. He slid a hand into Segundus' hair and pulled him down for a soft, tender kiss. “Perhaps another time.”

Segundus licked his lips. “I want to,” he confessed, “But I do not wish to hurt you.”

“I do not think you are capable of such a thing,” said Childermass. He fussed a little with Segundus' hair, which had fallen into his eyes in his exuberance. “Begin with the oil.”

Segundus sat up to uncork the bottle and pour a generous pool of oil into his palm. He rubbed his hands together, smearing it all over each of his fingers. He saw Childermass watching him with an amused glint in his eyes and, feeling rather affronted, Segundus wrapped his slick hands around Childermass' prick and stroked, making him heave a gasp and arch off the bed towards him.

“That is a more fitting reaction,” Segundus informed him. He stroked Childermass a while longer, until he made a frustrated little noise and took hold of one of his hands.

Childermass, his face fixed in something like resolution, kissed the fingertips of that hand, then guided it down between his legs. He gave very quiet and very clear instructions on how to proceed, so that before long Segundus had touched every secret part of him and made it slick with oil. When Childermass told him to press in, Segundus found breathing more difficult than it had been, but did as he was told.

“Oh, John,” Segundus said as he breached his lover. His flesh was hot and soft and accepted the gentle intrusion of a fingertip with only a minor resistance.

For his part, Childermass went still and seemed to cease all movement. As Segundus pushed deeper he tipped his head back on to the pillows and breathed fiercely. He pushed onto Segundus' hand, making him go deeper, further into the wondrous core of him.

Childermass kept up his guidance for a little while longer until Segundus had acquired the basics and was pleasing him very greatly with two fingers. At this point he pulled Segundus out of him entirely and made as if to turn onto his hands and knees, saying, “This will be easier.”

Segundus caught hold of him, shaking his head. “I want to see you,” he said, smiling and breathless. “Can we... may I see you?”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Childermass' eyes. He looked up at Segundus, plainly thinking very carefully, then nodded, a small, fast motion that demonstrated nothing so much as resignation.

Segundus traced a finger over the unhappy lines of Childermass' face, then touched his lips. “I will not do anything you do not want,” he said very softly. “I would sooner return to a life of chastity than do one thing to hurt you. I would let myself be taken away by a faerie, should I do anything you did not want. I would prefer to call myself a Norellite, sir, than in any way -”

“Alright!” cried Childermass, his face relaxing into a genuine smile. “You have made your point! It is not that you will hurt me. It is only that I will then have reached the limits of my experience.”

This revelation did a very curious thing to Segundus. Not only was it very surprising to him (he had considered Childermass an adept in the art of love, and had not imagined there would be any thing he had not made it his business to know) but it increased his arousal by an order of magnitude. That he might be the first! The first to do this with Childermass, even if it was only one very small thing. Childermass had given him so may exciting firsts, so much education in the ways of the body, to think that he could repay him in kind, if even a little, was enough to cause his mind to go quite blank for a moment.

When he returned somewhat to his senses he returned to kissing Childermass as if it were his vocation, and Childermass kissed back with equal enthusiasm. Childermass hooked his legs around Segundus' waist and began rocking himself onto the two fingers Segundus slid back inside him, grunting on every downstroke. Feeling very keenly that the moment was nearly upon him, Segundus slid his fingers free.

“That's it,” Childermass ground out through his teeth. “That's it, John. Come on, now, get to it.”

A final hesitation: “Only if you're sure...”

Rolling his eyes Childermass took hold of Segundus' prick (he gasped in delight) and guided it to his ready entrance. “Fuck me,” Childermass said, and it was the single plainest instruction Segundus had heard in all his life.

The first push into Childermass made him cry out, and Childermass smirked in a most self-satisfied manner beneath him. Segundus went slowly, in part because he did not want to hurt his lover, but also because the sensation was so intense that he feared it would finish him too soon. When he had himself completely inside Childermass he gasped for air and looked down, seeing how their bodies joined and how Childermass' prick glistened for him. He could not resist that eager flesh, so he wrapped it in his hand.

“John!” Childermass cried, no longer smirking but wearing an expression of agonised delight.

It was an instinctual thing, to pull out of Childermass some way and then push in again, and in that fashion continue steadily. He stroked Childermass in counterpoint, for he had a good sense of rhythm, honed by a childhood's worth of lessons at the pianoforte. The grip of Childermass' body around him was one of the most fantastic sensations he had ever experienced, and he could not restrain the shocked little sounds that escaped him with every thrust.

There was so much, too much, to take in, and he found himself distantly hoping that this would not be the only time Childermass would allow this particular form of lovemaking. For how could one be expected to properly catalogue all that was laid before him? The aching expression on his beloved's face, the frantic clenching of his hands in the bedspread, the sweat on his brow and the flush down his chest. And this was to say nothing of how Segundus' felt, how desperately he wanted this never to end, how keen he was to prove himself an accomplished lover, how he did not care about anything at all but this bed, this act.

As he rose towards his peak he released Childermass' prick and leaned down to insinuate his tongue into Childermass' mouth. This changed the angle of his penetration and Childermass let out a strangled wail and tipped his head back, exposing his throat to Segundus' tongue and teeth. He clamped his legs around Segundus' waist, urging him to stay at that same angle, and Segundus did so, fucking him with a sort of delirious abandon. He was aware that his mouth was open and his eyes were watering at their edges.

Whilst he continued to hit that sacred spot inside with unfailing accuracy, Childermass shouted something wholly incomprehensible and came to his ending. Segundus felt the muscles clench hard around his cock and he gasped, moaned at how good it felt. He kept thrusting, chasing his own pleasure until finally – oh! - there it was, his orgasm crashing through him like a storm of ravens. He pressed in hard to Childermass, filling him. He had never felt anything like it.

Childermass rubbed soothing circles into his lower back, whispering fast, hot praises into Segundus' ear as he held himself inside for as long as he could bear it, until the last burning embers of pleasure turned to sharp spikes and he was forced to withdraw.

He lay down beside Childermass and closed his eyes, thinking he needed just a moment to gather all the disparate parts of himself that had scattered the moment Childermass asked to be taken. Gentle fingers raked into his hair and he heard Childermass talking to him as if from very far away:

“I am very glad, that you have made it your business to distract me. I do not know what I did to deserve such attention, but perhaps I will no longer question its provenance.”

Segundus turned on his side to look deeply into Childermass' eyes, which were heavy with satisfaction. “If I tell you how I feel, will you run away again?”

Childermass shook his head minutely.

Instinctively, Segundus rolled onto his other side, turning his back to Childermass and encouraging him to wrap his arms about Segundus' middle. He sighed and settled himself on the pillows. They could not sleep like this; they had need of dinner and fresh linens, not to mention washcloths. He felt sticky with sweat and other, less polite substances. It was a very happy place to be, and he hoped to return as soon as they were able. His body thrummed with the echoes of ecstasy and he could feel Childermass resting his open mouth at the back of his neck.

“I love you, too,” he said softly, and smiled a smile so broad it might have been silly to look at. Fortunately, Childermass could not see it, and the surprised rush of laughter against his nape was all the answer he required.

 

 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

 

It was somewhat bewildering, how quickly they fell into a comfortable domesticity. Where their lives had been necessarily separate for so long, they now found themselves at liberty to be entwined in any number of new ways.

They woke together in Segundus' bed, which they had moved to later that evening, as it was somewhat larger than the bed in Lady Pole's room and Segundus was desirous of having his things close at hand. For the most part Childermass kept his few remaining possessions – a pocket knife, his cards, a ball of string, his pipe, tobacco and striker – on his person, though Segundus freely granted him a set of drawers that he might use for the purpose.

They rose together and took turns at the wash basin, and though Childermass made a few sullen complaints about Segundus' choice in shaving soap he also thanked him for the loan of a razor with a very thorough (and shockingly smooth) kiss. Childermass explained rather gravely that his beard had a will of its own, and would regrow with admirable determination.

During the day they worked companionably side by side, sitting in the library or the main hall as the mood took them. Neither had any obvious desire to work separately, for which Segundus was very glad. He was not ready to be parted from Childermass for any length of time, and even briefly contemplated weaving some sort of magical connection between them, before dismissing that idea as ludicrous and ungentlemanly. Segundus read extensively, searching for any historical precedent for vanishing magicians or pillars of darkness, whilst Childermass tore through the newspapers for any unusual activity that might be attributed to Strange and Norrell and continued to write his letters.

“I require a way forwards,” Childermass said, somewhat distractedly, when Segundus asked what he wrote. “I have need of guidance, and an audience. I must contact anyone who might be for our cause.”

“Which cause, in particular?”

Childermass glanced up from his letter, a small frown creasing his face. “I suppose we must protect the North. The Johannites have done us no favours in that regard, though I sympathise with their anger. Now that any man may make himself a magician there will be much chatter in Parliament, and I do not wish us to be hamstrung by idiots who are afraid of that which they do not understand.”

There was a small, delicate flower blooming in Segundus' chest, and it writ itself on his face in the form of a smile.

Childermass frowned more deeply. “What is so amusing?”

“I am not amused,” Segundus said, “Only very happy, sir, that you count me an ally in this endeavour. I am not, after all, a native to this part of the world.”

“Ah,” said Childermass, looking down at his letter but perhaps not seeing what he had written. “Well. Perhaps you have the spirit of a Yorkshireman. And I would be very pleased to have you as an ally.”

Segundus felt obliged to rise, then, and cross the space between them so that he could kiss Childermass, which caused him to make a noise of surprise.

Pulling away, Segundus said, “In that case, you shall have me.”

After a spot of luncheon they retired once more to the fireside, but Segundus found he could not devote his whole attention to his reading matter. He kept glancing up at Childermass, and every now and then he caught Childermass in the act of glancing at _him_ , at which point they both laughed as if caught in some guilty act. Segundus, though he was still a little sore and tired from their recent energetic activities, thrilled at the notion that he could look so freely at that which he desired, and smiled to himself as he looked down at his book.

When it grew dark Segundus fetched a bottle of brandy, from which he poured each of them a generous snifter. He kept his feet and raised his glass to Childermass.

Childermass smirked, and raised his own to clink it neatly against Segundus', though he stayed sprawled in the armchair.

“To our future endeavours,” Segundus said, and then flushed quite pink. He drank, to avoid any further embarrassment.

Childermass inclined his head slightly and sipped his drink. He held the liquid in his mouth, savouring the taste, before swallowing. Then he stood, so that he was barely a hand's length from Segundus. He raised his glass between them.

“I am very glad,” he began, then seemed to think better of it and said, “To you, John Segundus. For all you have done, and all you are yet to do.”

Which was quite the most disarming thing Segundus had ever heard, and in fact he was so surprised by it that he forgot to drink, at least until Childermass clinked their glasses together. He then drank too much, too quickly, and burned his throat with Mr Honeyfoot's best vintage.

Childermass smirked knowingly and tipped the rest of his drink down in one swallow. He snaked a hand into Segundus' hair and pulled him in for a kiss that tasted of brandy and smoke.

From there they retired to Segundus' chamber, where Segundus stoked the fire as Childermass undressed. He spent perhaps a little too long stacking up the logs, for he found himself nervous. There was an absence of the customary urgency between them, replaced instead with a continuation of the quietude they had shared throughout the day. Segundus fretted to himself, wondering if Childermass would find him so desirable without the constant threat of separation adding a certain intensity to their unions. In his rational mind he knew that Childermass was not so fickle a creature, but there was a part of him that seemed to enjoying worrying simply for the sake of it, and it was this part of him that whispered its frantic terrors in his ear.

“Are you coming to bed? Or will you stare into the flames all night?”

Segundus could not help but laugh. “I have not decided,” he said, and watched the flames dance a moment longer before standing.

Childermass was already in bed, sitting up against the pillows and on top of the covers in only his shirt. His legs were crossed at the ankles and his hair was undone, falling over his shoulders in waves.

For a moment Segundus did not remember how one was meant to walk and breathe simultaneously, but despite this handicap he managed to cross the room to the bed in double time. He put his hand on one of Childermass' bare ankles and stroked upwards, taking in the rasp of hair, the pleasant swell of the calf and the angles of his knee.

“A wise choice, John,” Childermass said softly. “But you are overdressed for the occasion.”

Agreeing, Segundus quickly shed his clothes and climbed on to the bed beside him. He tucked a strand of hair behind Childermass' ear and leaned in to kiss him, smiling to taste the last of the brandy. Childermass let out a strangled noise and rolled himself on top of Segundus, his hands reaching under his shirt for as much skin as he could find. Segundus stroked his back and sighed into it, releasing his fears as Childermass kissed him. They lay entwined in this manner for several long minutes, until Childermass broke away with a frustrated sigh.

“What is it?” asked Segundus. He rubbed circles on his lover's arms.

Childermass flopped on to his back and fixed the ceiling with a murderous scowl. “Nothing,” he sighed. “Nothing of consequence.”

Segundus turned on his side and laid his hand on Childermass' chest. “I think we are quite beyond those sorts of falsehoods, my dear.”

This was enough to cause Childermass to break his fixation on the ceiling and turn to look at Segundus with an expression of some confusion. “You have never called me that before,” he said, a note of suspicion ringing in his voice.

“Ah, well. I shall not again, if you do not like it.”

“No,” said Childermass. “That is, I suppose I do like it. You may call me by it, if you wish.”

Segundus beamed and kissed Childermass, saying, “My dear, my dear,” whenever he paused to draw breath.

“I do not know what I shall call you,” Childermass sighed.

“Whatever you like. Only not Johnny, I beg you.”

A very wicked grin sprung up on Childermass' face and Segundus had only a moment's grace before he was borne back into the mattress as Childermass cried, “My lovely _Johnny_!” He laid a sloppy kiss on Segundus' forehead. “Sweet young Johnny Segundus, how you have enchanted me!”

Segundus could not help but laugh, even as he tried to push Childermass off him and prevent himself falling prey to more wet kissing. It was a losing battle, and it ended with them pressed closely together, aching from laughter. He found he ached in other places, too, and when Childermass wrapped a hand around his hardening prick and stroked he gasped and closed his eyes.

“You are very beautiful,” Childermass said. “I feel I must tell you, for it is clear to me you have no notion of it.”

Segundus whimpered in protest, for he was very plain. His plainness had often been remarked upon.

“There are a great many things I should tell you,” Childermass said. He stroked Segundus slowly, tenderly. “I should thank you for visiting me in my dreams. I was very ill, and you were a great comfort to me.”

Segundus mumbled something incoherent and rose up a little way to kiss Childermass.

“I should also thank you for not shying away from me, when I reacted poorly to you. I am not in the habit of voicing my most personal thoughts. In fact I have spent a great many years in the practice of silence, where my own self is concerned.”

“You are talking now,” Segundus said, which he thought was a very great achievement, for Childermass had sped his hand a little and Segundus writhed under his touch. “I am very glad to hear you talk now!”

“I have often thought about such a moment as this,” Childermass whispered, pausing momentarily to worry Segundus' earlobe between his teeth. “I once neglected to pay the drapers because you came to mind when I was doing the accounts.”

“Oh!”

“Hmm. You have been a terrible distraction.” He swiped his thumb over the crown of Segundus' prick. “I imagined how we might make use of a great many surfaces in Hanover Square. And yet I did not dare to imagine having you like this.”

Segundus panted for air, he trembled on the precipice of his release, but he could not, _would not_ finish until he heard whatever Childermass had it in mind to say.

“You are mine, John,” Childermass said, in a manner that suggested this was only a recent revelation, “And I mean to keep you.”

Segundus cried out and came helplessly, and though he tried to keep his eyes open to witness the storm of emotion upon his lover's face he could not manage it, and succumbed to darkness and cried out. When he opened his eyes again Childermass was watching him with a smug sort of smile about his eyes. He reached for the blanket and pulled it up over the pair of them, cuddling up against Segundus.

Regaining his breath Segundus said, “What about you?” He did not like to think he was the sort of man who would leave his beloved unsatisfied, so long as he was able to provide some modicum of pleasure.

It was a curious thing, to feel the shrug of another through one's body, but Segundus could not mistake his movements for anything else. “You have worn me out,” he said, and he did sound a trifle sleepy.

Segundus smiled and nestled back against Childermass, and the pair fell into an easy slumber.

* * *

Their newfound peace was shattered quite spectacularly by two events. The first was the return of Vinculus from his celebrations and the second was a bundle of letters brought by the messenger boy.

At first glance, and to Segundus' way of thinking, this first was by far the greater challenge. Vinculus came back ravenous and still deep in his cups, and the larder suffered for it. He struck up a bold conversation with Mrs Grady, who whipped him with her dish cloth and served him a heaping breakfast.

Segundus felt very keenly the loss of their solitude, and was perhaps a little spiky towards Vinculus at first, which was very uncharitable, considering all that he had been through. Childermass attempted an explanation of the Book's recent exploits, which had left Segundus feeling vaguely unwell. What cruel treatment to have suffered! Despite his sympathies, Segundus could not help but resent Vinculus' intrusion on their haven, for Childermass began a study of Vinculus' body, staring intently at his naked torso for several hours every day – roughly the time Vinculus was happy to be stared at before declaring a need for food, or drink, or better company.

It was very important not to be jealous, Segundus reminded himself as he worked alongside Childermass over the course of the next week. Segundus did not need to be inscribed with magic to be interesting to his lover (a fact which was proved to him on a very nearly nightly basis) but there was still a shameful voice that needled at him whenever he happened to see the look on Childermass' face as he attempted to transcribe the Letters from skin to page.

“It is fascinating,” Childermass said one night as they prepared for bed. “I am no linguist, of course, nor even any great scholar -”

“You do yourself a disservice,” said Segundus, folding his shirt over a chair back. “You have been twenty years a scholar, at least.”

Childermass shrugged. “The point is I am only grasping at meaning. We will need to put the Book before more educated eyes than mine.”

“Or mine,” sighed Segundus.

“I think it will necessitate a mass effort. We must cast off the ways of the past. There are points of view we have not even imagined, John, and they must have the opportunity to look upon the King's words. For all we know, it is what he intended!”

His words were so lively, his eyes so bright with visions of the future that Segundus could not bring himself to hold on to his petty anger. And after all, he told himself as held him close under the covers, it was not Vinculus who kept Childermass safe in his arms. Yes, this was quite sufficient to soothe his heart.

The second blow was dealt some two weeks after the vanishing of Hurtfew. Segundus was in the rear courtyard, inspecting the recent work to the stable roof, when Childermass came to see him.

“Ah, good!” Segundus cried, “I am in need of a more experienced eye.”

He pointed out where the roofers had done their mending and Childermass gave it a thorough examination, outside and in, before declaring the work acceptable, for the price Segundus had paid.

“As long as it will not collapse in a high wind,” he said, and, as they were now safely inside, he tipped his head up and kissed Childermass softly on the lips.

“Do you mean to defile me in the stables, sir?” Childermass asked in a breathlessly coy voice that was at once ridiculous and rather arousing. He reached down to take two handfuls of Segundus' rear.

“Will your Brewer not object to such a spectacle?”

The horse in question stamped his feet and Childermass huffed out a laugh. “He has seen much worse, I am sure.”

He pushed Segundus up against the nearest wall and bent to kiss his neck, mouthing at the piece of skin between his ear and collar.

“You are incorrigible,” Segundus sighed.

Childermass kissed Segundus, a scratching, tickling kiss. “So I have been told.”

There was such an odd note to his voice that Segundus pulled back, the better to look him in the eye. “There is something the matter,” he said, frowning. “What's wrong, my dear?”

Childermass looked away and licked his lips, then spoke more quickly than was his habit: “I have had an answer to my letters. I am to leave tomorrow morning for London. They wish me to speak before the Commons, to explain what became of Mr Norrell.”

There was a silence in the wake of his speaking that Segundus felt he ought to fill, but could think of nothing germane to say. In such situations it was useful to have had the benefit of a gentlemanly upbringing, for some dusty instinct took over and he heard himself say, “Well of course, you must go,” as if from a great distance.

“You are not angry?” Childermass had about him a nervous look, which was not among his regular vocabulary of facial expressions.

“No, of course,” he said, and it was true. He did not feel anger, though there was a hollow sort of ache in his chest.

Childermass, who was a scholar of men above all else, gave him a very sceptical look. “What are you, then?”

Segundus smiled and slipped his hands down Childermass' shoulders, feeling his solid outline, his definite presence. “I am only sorry that I shall not see you tell off all those ministers,” he said in a very serious tone, and then broke into a smile. “You shall set the world to rights, John.”

“I hope that will be a job for the two of us.”

Childermass resumed kissing him, and Segundus gave himself over to it. Worries could wait for the morning.

* * *

It was a terrible wrench, to watch Childermass ride out the next morning. It was not as if Segundus was at a loose end without him; indeed they had spent the main part of the previous evening dividing between them the work that lay ahead, and Segundus had plenty to keep himself occupied. Despite this, he felt a resurgence of that hollow ache inside him, that ache which could not be soothed by any hand save one.

He buckled down to work before the tea was cool, and soon had written to each of his former colleagues at the York Society of Magicians with his and Childermass' proposal outlined in brief. To each man he made also a personal appeal, drawing on his remembrances of each to suit the letter to his particular vanities or interests. He considered it a good morning's work indeed, and rewarded himself with a walk to the village in the afternoon to see them posted.

They managed to exchange the occasional letter during their separation, and though it was now less likely to draw attention they maintained a professional tone. Segundus thought if he began to express his feelings upon the page he might never stop, and be forced to burn his own letters for security.

“Cheer up, Mr Segundus,” said Vinculus to him with an overdrawn wink one evening. They had taken to sharing a glass or two of red before retiring, and whilst Vinculus was still a very strange sort of creature, Segundus found he had warmed to him, rather as one might a stray dog. “We are all on a course together, and sooner or later all will come right.”

“How do you stand it?” Segundus asked quite abruptly. “To be always at the whim of destiny?”

Vinculus grinned, his whole face lighting up with mirth. “We are not slaves, John Segundus. We may choose which path to follow, and how to follow it. Only remember that all paths come together, sooner or later.”

* * *

The first flurries of snow were falling as Segundus made his way to the Old Starre Inn, and the sharp fingers of the north wind clawed at him even through his clothes. Despite this he felt a bubbling warmth inside him, for beyond the walls of this humble inn lay the beginning of a future that he could not have imagined even a year previously.

The meeting room was already busy when he arrived, which he took as a very good sign. He was himself an hour early, and set himself to quietly walking the edges of the room, speaking with those he knew and introducing himself to those he did not. He felt himself buoyed up by purpose and experienced not one jot of fear or worry, for this was a moment long in the planning and all these were people like him, men and women who had lived many years believing in magic and had come to see if their faith had been rewarded.

When Mr Honeyfoot arrived Segundus happily went to him and the two chatted, drawing perhaps a few curious glances from those who remembered them. The room was by now packed with magicians, and Segundus felt a very distinctive prickle across the back of his neck. We are all magicians, he thought wildly, and England is full of magic!

At the stroke of seven the door to the meeting room opened and Segundus felt his heartbeat quicken and his breath catch, for he knew who it must be. He felt a private rush of pride when the room was silenced by the sheer drama of Childermass' entrance, and fought very hard to keep the silly smile off his face.

The meeting itself was a blur of chatter and excitement which he was never thereafter able to render into a coherent narrative. There was a great deal of shouting and talking and planning for the future, and throughout Segundus felt as if he had become a new man, for those magicians who were intimidated by Vinculus' naked torso or Childermass' thunderous eyes chose to speak with _him_ , to ask his opinion and seek his guidance on matters practical and magical. How astonishing it all was! How enlivening!

He talked until his limbs felt weak and his voice was hoarse, at which point someone called for more ale and the meeting dissolved into a proper party. There were toasts raised to the Raven King, to Mr Norrell and to Mr Strange (each side making sure not to be out-toasted by their opposition) and then to Vinculus, who bowed low and downed his tankard with aplomb. There was even a toast to Childermass, though he rolled his eyes to be acknowledged thus.

As the night wore on Segundus found himself unable to keep from gravitating to Childermass, and Childermass, it seemed, was similarly afflicted. The smell of Childermass was burningly familiar and once or twice Segundus had to remove himself to the privy or the tap room in order to distract himself from his rising arousal.

“It is very well done, John” Mr Honeyfoot said as the party worked itself to the final stage, that of quiet sitting and last drinks before the long slog to bed. “I wish to congratulate you.”

“And I you,” said Segundus, who had been talking far too much to drink more than a glass or two and so was perhaps one of the more sober revellers left awake. “I will forever be grateful for your friendship, sir. Without it I would have been quite lost.”

Two spots of pink bloomed on Mr Honeyfoot's cheeks and he beamed. “You are too kind, sir,” he said, “But I will happily drink to that.”

It was gone midnight when Segundus finally had the chance to sit down beside Childermass. He had thought there would be much to say, as they had only conversed by letters in so long, but for a time they simply sat in front of the dying fire and looked at one another. When Childermass rose Segundus did too, and without any words being exchanged they withdrew from the remnants of the party (a few snoring gentleman who had been playing at cards and Vinculus, who was speaking quite earnestly with a widow from Kingston, who kept topping up his glass) and climbed the stairs to the bedrooms.

Childermass made a quick survey of the corridor before declaring it safe and encouraging Segundus to follow with a quick gesture of his hand. The room was just large enough for a bed and a bureau, which items Segundus was only able to briefly inspect before he found himself shoved against the door and kissed most thoroughly. His head swam, the ache inside him receded and he clung to Childermass with both hands.

“I have missed you,” Childermass growled, their mouths not an inch apart. He moved to nuzzle at Segundus' neck, scraping stubble across his jawline and dragging wet kisses across whatever skin he could find. His hands were occupied under Segundus' jacket, their wide span pressing up against his ribs.

Segundus pulled the other's hair out of its queue and heard Childermass groan. “I am here,” he said softly, “I would be nowhere else.”

Childermass paused and met Segundus' eye. There was a dark turmoil in his gaze. He rested their foreheads together and brought his hands up to frame Segundus' face. He nipped Segundus' lips, then again, quick little kisses that soon reduced Segundus to moaning and clenching his hands in his lover's hair.

“I want you,” Childermass said. He smiled in his sideways manner and he reached down to cup Segundus' erection.

Segundus felt the heat rise up in his cheeks and he thrust helplessly into that hand for a few happy moments before Childermass pulled him towards the bed and pushed him down upon the counterpane with the whole weight of his body.

He held Childermass to him, stroking soothingly and hooking a leg up over his hips so that they were pressed very close together. “I was so proud,” he whispered into Childermass' ear, “To see how you spoke tonight. I am delighted by you. I might be very content to live quietly with you, to never be apart, but I suspect you are destined for greater things than I, and I could never, oh John, I promise, I would never hold you back.”

Childermass frowned. “That does not worry me,” he said, and kissed him. “We have proved many a time that we work best when we are together, in spirit if not in body, so you may save your babbling.” He then proceeded to slide down the bed, so that he lay between Segundus' parted legs. He mouthed at the swell in the front of Segundus' breeches, his eyes sliding closed as if he had been anticipating this very moment for some time and was relieved to finally arrive at it.

“Oh,” cried Segundus, spreading his legs wider and thrusting his hips up a little. “Oh, John.”

His breeches yielded to Childermass' questing hands and Segundus gasped as his prick was exposed to the chill air of the chamber. Mercifully, Childermass wrapped his lips around Segundus without ceremony, warming him quickly as he sucked on the crown. Segundus cried out as Childermass moaned around his cock and took him deeper into the wet haven of his mouth.

Segundus fisted a hand in Childermass' hair and Childermass gave such a groan of pleasure that Segundus felt it like a lightning bolt up his spine and he shuddered. Childermass bobbed his head up and down a few times before turning his attentions to Segundus' balls, sucking lightly and kissing the skin of his inner thighs. Segundus smothered himself with one hand and did not let go of Childermass, for he was afraid that to do so would leave him quite without a fixed point in the universe to guide him, and he would be lost to the swelling sea of sensation.

With a snarl Childermass sat up, shed his jacket and began to pull open his own breeches, which Segundus considered a very fine idea, and he dug his fingers into Childermass' thighs in anticipation. Childermass stroked his cock, already hard, already beaded with moisture, and looked down on Segundus with hungry eyes.

Segundus could feel his heart's manic beat in his chest and he reached up to help, to stroke his thumb over the very tip of Childermass' manhood and hear how he groaned, watch how he moved in response to Segundus' touch.

“Kiss me,” Segundus said, and Childermass did so, leaning down over him to capture his lips.

Segundus slid a hand down between them and aligned their cocks, which made Childermass grunt and thrust forwards, stroking them together.

“Oh, you are clever,” he said, then resumed kissing.

The pressure of his imminent climax built in him, but Segundus did not want it to end so soon. With a sudden burst of strength his rolled them so that Childermass was on his back, an look of mild shock in his eyes as Segundus took charge of the pace, rubbing them together in slow circles and biting on his own lip to keep from crying out.

It was then his turn to lean down and kiss Childermass, which he did in the filthiest fashion he could muster, with tongue and teeth and the full ardour of his heart. Childermass gripped Segundus' backside in both hands and urged him to press harder until they were rutting together with little in the way of finesse. There were no thoughts in Segundus' head save for the roaring of pleasure _._

He heard a pained, broken noise from below him and opened his eyes to watch the agony of climax wash through Childermass. His body jerked hard and he spent into the small space between them with a shuddering sigh. Segundus kissed him and kissed him, for it was a beautiful gift and he did not know any words to properly thank him.

After a few minutes of this attention Childermass pulled Segundus down beside him and turned them, so that they were slotted together and Childermass could reach his hand around to take hold of Segundus' prick in his hand. He breathed hotly against Segundus' neck.

“Oh,” said Segundus, his body thrilling with a sudden flood of memory, “Oh, John...”

He stroked Segundus briskly, twisting his hand and forcing high little sounds out of him. Segundus turned his head and kissed Childermass, sloppy and open-mouthed, and with that he was done, he finished with a desperate cry and a shudder that went through his whole body.

As they regained their breath they curled up together, a very intimate embrace though they were, for the most part, still clothed. Segundus felt a ripple of happiness and laughed, which cause Childermass to laugh, also.

“I do not think I have anything left to teach you,” Childermass said, still smiling. “I have shown you all my tricks.”

“Well, that is a pity,” Segundus sighed. He arranged himself a little more comfortably. “But of course, a subject so wide and varied as love could easily be the subject of lifelong study.”

Childermass fixed him with a solemn gaze. “Aye,” he said, “I have heard such a thing said.”

Segundus laced their fingers together and held on tight. “And we are both very dedicated scholars,” he said, and Childermass lurched the last little way forwards to kiss him, which was, in the language of John Childermass, the plainest and most heart-felt answer he could give.

The snow fell thick and heavy throughout the night, but the cold did not trouble the two magicians until the next morning, when it was necessary for them to rouse themselves and make for Starecross. The whole world was draped in a blanket of white, a blanket that dazzled wherever it was touched by the winter sun.

It was a somewhat worse for wear party that set out from the inn. Mr Honeyfoot fell asleep the moment he was safely ensconced in the back of the coach and Vinculus, who had been given so very thorough a kiss farewell from the Kingston widow that Segundus had blushed to the roots of his hair when he went to collect him, chose to sit up with the driver and hummed a merry tune as they set off. It would be slow going, and take much of the day, but Childermass had very thoughtfully procured them a basket of luncheon so they would not go hungry. The promising tinkling of bottles in another basket had been sufficient to quell even Vinculus' complaining.

In the privacy of the cab Childermass slid his gloved hand over Segundus' bare one.

Soon their lives would be made hectic once more, ruled by the higher purposes they all chose to serve. Whatever obstacles might present themselves, be it madmen or magicians, faeries or fools in parliament, it could all be gladly borne, Segundus thought, as long as they continued to find their way back together again.

Segundus leaned more closely into Childermass to share his warmth. It was very peaceful, listening to the rattle of the coach and the gentle snuffling of Mr Honeyfoot opposite them. To Mr Segundus' surprise he realised that he would never find a better definition for home or family than this very moment. He felt how his heart swelled with happiness and squeezed Childermass' hand tighter, as if he could communicate all that he felt by means of touch.

Childermass sighed behind him and pressed a kiss to his temple, and Segundus thought that he must have understood. He smiled, and together they watched the gentle passing of the snowy landscape outside the window.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who has come on this journey, thank you for your kudos and your likes, your reblogs and comments, it means the world to me that people have read it and kept reading it, and I hope you've enjoyed it too. This fandom is the greatest <3


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